The Special One
by ArabellaFaith
Summary: Sherlock allows himself to be captured and tortured in order to protect John. When he comes back, the two of them deal with the repercussions of his ordeal, along with feelings neither of them has been willing to admit before. Mature readers please! First kiss in chapter 9, real smut starts in chapter 11 (just in case you want to skip to the hot stuff right away)!
1. Chapter 1

_**Hello all! Thanks for stopping by to read chapter one of my Sherlock story! I've been such a fan of the show and simply couldn't hold out any longer against writing my own story with Sherlock and John. This story will be very firmly JohnLock, and there will eventually be sexual scenes. A note of caution for this first chapter: it contains descriptions of the abuse Sherlock suffers at the hands of his captors in some detail. Please be aware of this before you start! Hopefully you'll enjoy the stage I'm setting, and be ready for the curtain to fully rise on Sherlock and John!**_

_**As always, Happy Reading!**_

The Special One: Chapter One

Sherlock Holmes had known from an early age that he was, in many ways, special. Very special. He was intelligent in the extreme, observant and his powers of reasoning were unparallelled in all of Great Britain- if not the world. For the total of his adult life he'd found other people boring, unimaginative, tedious. What they had to say rarely interested him, their thoughts simply too mundane to capture his attention. The few exceptions to that rule were usually psychopaths. Funny that so many people mistook him for one as well. Missing the subtle difference between a psychopath and a sociopath was just one of the many reasons most people were simply too dull to be considered worthwhile.

It followed, then, that his life was more valuable than others. Putting silly sentiment aside, he had more worth than most random people on the street. Not only did he solve crimes and thus prevent new ones from occurring, but intelligence of his sort was far and few between. He was a commodity. A rare wine on a shelf full of common vintages. Because of that, Sherlock was never heroic. He took chances when it suited him, when he wished to. Not when it would save another. To him it wasn't at all selfish. It was logical. If he stepped in front of a bullet for the sandwich shop owner down the street, the man would go home to his wife and kids, lead a perfectly average life, then die someday down the road. He would never do a single extraordinary thing in his life. The world would have lost, in his place, its only consulting detective. Quick mental math could lead Sherlock to estimate that he would, indirectly, save the lives of almost three thousand people in the next year if he kept working cases at his current rate. So in terms of human lives, he far outweighed everyone he knew.

Simple logic.

But all the logic in the world couldn't stop him from choosing to give up his own life to save John Watson's. Sherlock couldn't have told anyone precisely when it had happened. When foolish sentiment had crept its way into his heart and overruled his cold, unyielding logic. Silly, pointless sentiment. John was a doctor, he surely would go on to save lives. But he could have been a plumber and Sherlock would still have given his life for the man. Foolish, useless sentiment. It made him stare into the eyes of a mad man and choose, without pause, to give his life in order to spare John Watson.

In those moments, things became perfectly, terrifyingly clear to Sherlock. He'd let his flatmate into his life, into his heart, and he was about to -gladly- pay the ultimate price for it. He wouldn't have used such a naive or ridiculous word such as _love _for what he felt for the doctor, but at it's base, that's what it was. Love. Pure, unadulterated, selfless love. John had become central to his life in every way. Without John Watson, there was no Sherlock Holmes, pure and simple. It made the sacrifice so much easier. Why loose both lives when one could be saved? And it was crystal clear in Sherlock's mind that John's was the life to save. Because Sherlock _wasn't_ special.

John was.

John with his big heart and unflinching courage and unwavering loyalty. A brilliant mind could be born, bred, engineered. But a beautiful soul...that was the true rarity. John was everything Sherlock had scoffed at in his youth. Ruled by his heart and so many scruples that Sherlock found too restricting. But what he'd once seen as weakness and foolishness he had to come to see as ultimate strength both of character and will.

A thousand possibilities flashed through his mind as he took those last few seconds to consider. A thousand memories tumbled to the fore and he pushed them back. There was a chance, a slight chance, that he could pull the ultimate trick. That he could come back from this. It was slim, but it was there. Even with no chance, he'd still have sacrificed himself to save John, but the hope that he might see his friend again had his mind functioning at break neck speed, racing through the possibilities, gears turning so quickly that if they'd been true metal and grease pieces they'd have melted.

He calculated the risk. It was going to have to be enough. If it didn't work, he would die with the knowledge that John was safe. And if it did...well then, there would be a price to pay. A price for the pain his apparent death would cause John. A price for every second John mourned. And Sherlock would extract that price from his enemies with a cruelty that would shock the good doctor if he ever found out.

* * *

Two years later:

It was almost over. They had been hunted down and eliminated, in one form or another, all except for this last one. He'd been clever, very clever to escape Sherlock's clutches. He never came out of hiding. Which was why the only way to get him had been to fall into his hands. Let the careful, brutal man think he'd captured the great Sherlock Holmes. When in fact, it was Sherlock who would be capturing him. He'd made all the calculations twice, three times, a dozen times. The plan wasn't optimal. There would be repercussions that lasted years for Sherlock. But he wanted to go home. He wanted to be with John. He'd forgotten, really, just how lonely his life had been before John Watson had walked into it.

The endless drudgery of every day events, the darkness that crept upon him when his mind was idle too long. The tedium only able to be broken with drugs that at once both cleared his brain and addled it. He'd forgotten the way things had been before. And so maybe he'd never really appreciated John the way he should have. The light John had brought to his life. So much of his time was spent in cool calculations and heartless deductions that he'd let it pass, almost unnoticed, all the small things that John did to brighten his life. They were things only an idiot would miss, which John had aptly called Sherlock so many times. Not that John would go get the groceries, but that John would make sure to pick up the particular kind of tea Sherlock favored. Not that John put up with Sherlock disappearing into his mind palace for hours on end, but that he was always there to listen when Sherlock came out of it. Had he thought he'd appreciated the doctor before his faked death?

He'd been wrong. It had taken two long years missing his best friend to truly understand just how much John Watson meant to him. Which was why he knelt in the dank cave, back sliced to ribbons, three ribs broken, all of them bruised, clenching his teeth tight so that he didn't accidentally bite his tongue off when the impact of the next blow shot through him.

The careful calculations had been right, of course. They hadn't wanted to kill him right away. That had been the most risky gamble of the venture. If they'd wanted to kill him at the very start, the whole plan would have been fucked. But no, Sherlock had guessed correctly that his enemy's brutality would outweigh his desire to see him dead. The one thing he'd _mis_calculated on had been his coping mechanisms.

When they'd taken him into the cell that would be his home for nearly two months, Sherlock had assumed he would deal with the pain the way he'd dealt with every other kind of pain in his life. He would retreat into his mind, barricade himself in his mind palace until it was over. In the past, it had let him distance himself from the physical, divorce himself from his own feelings.

But he'd never felt pain like this before.

The beatings were manageable. Burly men lashing out in predictable ways. The damage could be calculated, tallied and totaled. Dismissed. The first time they'd opened his back with the whip he'd felt the stirrings of fear. It shook him. Even from inside his mind he'd felt the pain of it. At times, the innocuous coil of leather laid him open to the bone. Nerves screamed at him, sending shock waves of agony through him. Worse, a few days after a whipping they would do it all over again, scourging wounds that his body was trying desperately to close.

Even that, though, he could still hide from. He managed some distance from the red hot agony and spent his time calculating the risk of infection, the rate at which it would grow, which bacterium would most likely enter his wounds and how it would need to be treated. Each blow, he would let the cold analyst within him sense and analyze. He would consider how many stitches it would take to close the slice, then the calculations became more intense as the whippings continued and he had to factor in other wounds, reopened or deepened gashes, and how much skin was left on his back to work with.

He knew there would be scars. He deduced analytically how many years it would take each scar to fade based on how deep the gash was. Which ones would never fade completely.

He had even counted on mutilation. Loosing fingers, toes, maybe some permanent disfigurement to his face or irreparable damage to a limb. Simple matters of physical disability that would need to be overcome. So far, he hadn't lost any appendages, but he didn't count on that lasting long. He judged that the reason they had yet to divest him of one was simply to prolong the torture. Infection would set in fast with a wound that big. Or they risked loosing him to blood loss. No, they wanted to prolong their fun with him too much to risk it yet.

Of course, Sherlock had figured sexual assault into his calculations as well. When they realized he didn't react the same way to torture a normal person did, they were bound to explore other options. Historically, rape was a tried and true form of humiliation, domination and torment. Sherlock was in no way ignorant of all things sexual. He'd been unable to gain the mind numbing pleasure from sex acts because his mind simply couldn't be numbed. Sex didn't make him skittish or embarrassed. It just didn't interest him. He'd never lost his breath, felt his heart rate increase, lost track of a thought because of attraction. So after the brief, clinical studies he'd done of both himself and others, he'd put the issue to bed. But that in no way meant that he was unaware of the drive in others. The mechanics of the act and the emotions that accompanied it.

Rage, in this case. Hatred, anger, desire to inflict pain. Desire to dominate. So rarely was rape about sex. Statically, it was about control and anger. Of course, there was desire as a factor as well, but that wasn't Sherlock's concern. He'd been able to catalog each of those things and total them up. Over the course of his life he'd read many reports on sexual assault statistics and the psychology that went along with recovery. For the average mind, overcoming it was a matter of time, support, and understanding that there was no fault on the part of the victim. Sherlock was in no way an "average mind." He knew going in that anything done to him was not his fault. Logic would prevent him from seeing it otherwise. Pain he could dismiss. Degradation was nothing new to him. He'd been called 'freak' so many times that he now took a certain kind of pride in it.

All those things should have prepared him. They should have let him easily dismiss the attacks. And when his assailants realized it was not an effective form of torture, they would grow bored with it and move on. Perhaps electrical torture. Caning. Water-boarding.

But nothing, no amount of preparation, no cold calculations, no clean rational thought, could have prepared him for the reality of it.

He'd been able to tell instantly when it was coming. The man broadcasted his intentions in the way he walked, the set of his jaw, the glint in his eyes. And of course there was the tell tale unbuckling of his belt. He had the two guards unhook Sherlock from where he'd been dangling from the ceiling. The relief flooding through his limbs at the release was only momentary, though, as he was bent over the dirty bench and his arms once more pulled taut. He took deep breaths through his broken nose and set his jaw, knowing the best way to make the bastard loose interest would be to stay perfectly still and give no outward sign of distress. As his trousers were ripped down, he closed his eyes and retreated behind the walls of his mind palace. The man's words became distant, then were lost all together. He could no longer feel the pain of the gash on his cheekbone being pressed into the rough grain of the wood bench. He could no longer feel the cold, unyielding floor beneath his knees. Casually, he strolled to his favorite door in the palace, leading to his favorite room. Memories about his favorite thing. John's room. He began to examine the contents carefully, cherishing each one.

The invasion stole his breath and caught him so off guard that he didn't even have time to brace for it. It was as if a wrecking ball had torn through his mind. It wasn't something that pain or humiliation could do. It was intrusion. _Desecration._ His mind spun out of control as his body struggled to process each new pain. He desperately clung to his memories of John, then thrust them away in disgust, unwilling to taint those precious memories with the atrocity that was happening currently. Instead, he tried to bring his whirling mind to heel. If only he could latch onto one thought, form a calculation, analyze and deduce. But he couldn't catch a single shred of thought from the maelstrom in his mind.

It was pain and darkness and degradation and violation. The assault was as much mental as it was physical. Why had Sherlock never known how intimate the sex act could be? Maybe, maybe if he'd been aware of the light end of that feeling, he would have been prepared for the dark end of it as well. It wasn't just something being done to him, but something being taken from him. Stolen brutally. Secret, private things were laid bare and plundered. Parts of himself he'd never shared with another were callously tormented.

His eyes, which he'd screwed tightly shut, flashed open. He knew then, beyond a doubt, that each moment of this would be forever burned into his mind. The ugly stains on the floor, the water trickling down the walls, the fiery ingress and tearing pain, they wouldn't be stored in neat boxes inside his mind palace. They would be carved into the walls. Etched into the floors. And if he brought the whole damn thing down and put up another, they would rise from the ashes and imprint themselves on his new one as well. It was inescapable. Against his will, a single tear escaped his eye and fell, slowly down his cheek, across his nose, and dripped onto the bench. He couldn't catch his breath, felt as if he was going to suffocate. In desperation, he tried to count how many seconds it would take without oxygen before he blacked out. How long could the human body survive without air?

His swirling mind threw a number at him, and he began to count. His count took on a sickening rhythm with the thrusts of the man behind him. As he counted, other figures came to him from the darkness. Average length of time a middle aged male maintained sex before ejaculation. Statistical chances of getting an STD from this encounter. How much that percent would multiply if others used him this way.

For a moment, his mind was cast into the darkness, the stark chaos once more at the thought of others taking him. He struggled to push it away. Struggled to regain some form of control.

His thoughts began to flicker, his vision starting to fade. That returned some calm to him again. He was reaching the point at which he would black out. As he took up his count again, he only hoped that if he was to be deprived of air like this, he would be without long enough to kill him. The thought of surviving with brain damage truly terrified him. He repeated the numbers again in his head as he waited for the darkness. Once he blacked out, how many more seconds until his heart stopped. How much the chances of brain damage increased with each passing moment.

Just as the darkness had him in its cold fingers, he felt the immense weight on his back shift. Automatically, his lungs expanded, taking in huge gulps of dank air. While he tried to process all the pains wracking him, it was impossible to ignore the insults hurled at him. The ugly words. Logically, he knew they were more a reflection of his attacker than himself. So why did he feel so dirty? Why was there shame painting his cheeks? He'd done nothing wrong. But still, he couldn't suppress it.

He was quickly jerked upright, then hooked back to the chain in the ceiling. A small groan of pain escaped him. The lacerations on his back were opened again, his muscles screaming in agony from being wrenched so hard. The pain of the assault itself was immense, a fiery agony consuming him from the inside out. Somehow, worse than all that, was the cool trickle of blood mixed with semen dripping down his thigh.

Sherlock didn't loose track of the number of times he was used -Used, taken, abused, somehow the word rape was uncomfortable for him to think. Shameful. How had his world shifted so radically?- No, he didn't loose track. They didn't blur together. They were each burned into his mind. Each thrust, each moan, each clutch of dirty fingers at his hips. Somehow, those bruises seemed the ugliest to him. Round smudges of black in the shape of fingers digging into him. They were ugly and terrible. They would fade, Sherlock knew that. He could tabulate the number of days, the number of _hours_ until they would be gone. So why did they bother him more than the scars that would never leave his back?

As time wore on, Sherlock continually reminded himself of why he'd allowed this to happen. Why he'd let himself be captured. It was the only way. He couldn't return until all his enemies were dispatched, couldn't risk John that way. He wanted to return to his life, to 221B, to his work and his only real friend. This had been the _only way._ So he could handle it. He would have to.

In the end, it took less time than he'd originally guessed. A total of seven weeks, two days, five hours and eight minutes before his opportunity came. He had long before memorized the faces of the thugs, their rank amongst the group. He knew which of them carried keys, which had weapons. He knew the one with the rifle had an ever so slight limp in his left leg, obviously from weak cartilage in his knee. He knew that the man with the key to his cuffs had a small bladder and went to relieve himself an average of once every two point seven hours. And he knew that the man he needed to kill in order to return home, return to John- _keep John safe_- was in a room eight meters down the hall, then two meters to the right. Guard at the door, hand gun, no extensive training.

He moved quickly when the time came. It wasn't revenge or retribution that drove him. That would get in the way, would cloud his thoughts. He forced himself to be cold, distant. Get the key from the guard on duty. Unlock his cuffs, silence and disable said guard. Two shots, kill the two thugs on either side of his cell door. One more shot for the one at the end of the hall. Boot heel to the knee of the one with the rifle. Cold cock him to save bullets. Take out the guard with the hand gun as he comes running around the corner. Five more steps to the object of his search. No more bullets left in the gun. Discarded. Brief hand to hand engaged. Blow to the solar plexus, another to the temple. A simple step to get behind the man, heels of his hands pressed to jaw and back of the head. A quick twist. A loud pop.

Then it was done. The last one taken out. He was free. He could go home. Home. _John._ The adrenaline that had taken him that far suddenly ran out. He'd expected that, prepared for it. Pain was a sharp lance burning just beneath his skin, embracing him like an old friend. He used it to push himself just a little further. Pick the lock on the desk, get out the cell phone. Dial the number with shaking fingers.

"Its done. Come get me." Then his world went black.

**_I promise a quick update and cookies all around if you're willing to take a moment and tell me what you thought! ; )_**


	2. Chapter 2

_**Hello everyone! Thanks for returning to read chapter two, in which John hears from Mycroft and plot ensues. Hope you enjoy it! Happy Reading!**_

John hoped he would never hear from Mycroft Holmes again. It wasn't that he disliked the man any more than he ever had. There were just too many painful memories. Living at 221B was hard enough. Being surrounded by Sherlock's things, his scents, his maddening experiments. But seeing Mycroft was simply too much. The living, breathing brother of his dead friend was more than he could handle.

When the limo pulled up beside him, he considered running. He wondered, idly, how far he'd get before Mycroft's goons found him and drug him back. Probably not far. As if sensing this, the camera on the street corner whirred to life, turning in his direction and elongating its lens as it zoomed in on him. With a sigh of defeat, John opened the door and got in.

"Hello, Mycroft," he said dryly. Mycroft flashed him that tight smile and inclined his head in greeting. "Can we just have done with this cloak and dagger nonsense? If you want something, give me a ring. Text me. Knock on my door."

"Ah, but there are so much more efficient ways of getting your attention, Dr Watson. A call can be ignored. And you know how much I hate to text. Plus, you wouldn't begrudge an old man for not wanting to climb those stairs to get to you."

"Mrs Hudson gets on just fine and she's three decades older than you."

"A shot at me, John?" Mycroft made a tsking sound and shook his head. "I thought you above such things."

"Yeah, well I'm not. What do you want?"

Sensing the end of John's patience, Mycroft cleared his throat the got right to the point. "I need your help."

"You?" John laughed. "Need my help? You have the entire British government at your finger tips, as well as half of every other government in the world most likely. What could you possibly need me for?"

"A retrieval. Of a...delicate nature. As you are both a soldier and a doctor, you fill both the qualifications I am seeking. And there are...other factors."

"Other factors? Just tell me what the hell is going on, Mycroft."

"You're being called upon to serve Queen and country, Captain Watson, that's what 'the hell is going on.'" Mycroft said sharply. John fixed him with a stony glare.

"Queen and country," he whispered softly. Mycroft only lifted one brow, taking the anger in John's tone in stride. There was a tense moment of silence between them. "You never to have to resort to physical force, do you Mycroft?" John finally asked.

"Rarely, no."

"I will do this once, and only once. Because your brother-" He stopped, unable to express the feelings. "And when I've done whatever you want, you're going to leave me alone. You're never going to pull me off the street into one of your limos, you're going to get your bloody surveillance cameras out of my home, and if all goes as planned, we will never have to speak to each other again."

"Fine," Mycroft agreed quickly, surprising John. He'd expected some protest, but Mycroft's face was bland and accepting. "But John, if you change your mind about the terms of our deal once its done, I'll be happy to once more invade your privacy and interfere with your life."

"Not bloody likely," John muttered. Mycroft didn't respond to the comment, but instead passed a file to John.

"I need you to retrieve someone. He's been a prisoner of a gang in southern Europe. With his help, I was able to uncover his exact location. Now we need to get him out. And he will be in need of a doctor."

"Political ally?"

"Hardly." A small smile tugged at Mycroft's lips. "Quite the opposite, actually. But someone I have a vested interest in none the less. You'll be taking a jet, then arriving at the location via helicopter. There will be gear waiting for you. We have no surveillance of the cave and I can't tell you if there will be members of the gang still alive inside when you arrive. But your only priority is to get to your mark and get him out. After that, you're to administer whatever emergency medical care is needed while the two of you are taken to a private hospital in Belgrave."

"Who's my mark? There isn't a picture in here."

"No pictures. Too dangerous. The sketch of the basic lay out is in the file. Your mark's location is the red X. If all goes well, you'll find him there with no problems."

"And if there _are_ problems?"

"I have no doubt that in the time you spent with my brother some of his ability rubbed of on you. You'll figure it out." The limo pulled to a stop even as John was wincing at the reference to Sherlock. They got out wordlessly, and in moments, John was boarding the jet.

On the flight, he changed, strapped on his gear, then flipped through the file Mycroft had given him. The layout seemed pretty clear, _if_ Mycroft's intel was correct. He'd done retrieval before, in his army days. Usually when the person being extracted had been subject to some sort of physical trauma. IED blast, torture from enemy soldiers, illness. Assuming his mark had been a captive of the gang for any length of time, John could guess that he would be treating torture wounds. As much as he wished they would be his first, they wouldn't by a long shot. War was ugly. He knew that first hand. People could do terrible things to one another. He checked the bag of medical supplies. It was more than adequate, not that he expected anything less from Mycroft.

Once in the helicopter, John's mind turned, as it often did, to Sherlock. Seeing Mycroft had brought too many painful memories to the fore. The loneliness never really left him, but he'd been able to tamp down the despair. The wrenching emptiness. Now, the wound felt as fresh as it had two years ago. Loosing Sherlock was the hardest thing John had ever been through. The pain had threatened to consume him. In their time together, Sherlock had somehow become John's whole life. He was snide and a little cold, brilliant to a terrifying degree, antisocial and calculating. But he was also funny, loyal, even kind in his own way. John had never met another man more determined, nor one who'd ever intrigued him as much. But Sherlock wasn't just a mystery to John. He'd been a friend. His best friend. And perhaps the only one to ever know the softer side of the detective.

No, he didn't cuddle a teddy before bed or tear up at old movies, but he was wildly protective of the few he cared about. He could cut someone to the quick thoughtlessly, then lift them back up with a few kind words when he realized what he'd done. He would stay up on nights when nightmares plagued John and play his violin into the wee hours of the morning when the music would finally lull John back to sleep. And he'd brought John back to life. Shown him a world of adventure and excitement. With Sherlock, there was never a dull moment. That brilliant mind worked at light speed, fascinating and sometimes disquieting him with its genius. Sherlock had been everything he'd never known he'd been missing in his life.

And now he was gone.

John blinked back the sheen of tears and cleared his throat. His pilot radioed that they were getting ready to set down. Behind John, the other soldiers checked their weapons. Out of habit, John palmed his gun though he wasn't supposed to have to use it. That's what the others were there for. His only job was finding his mark and getting him out.

The chopper set down and they set off at a run. The bright glare of the sun was suddenly cut off as they entered the cave. Relying on his mental map, John cleared his path to his mark. From the mouth of the cave, it was a simple path. In three meters, left two meters, door on the right. As the other soldiers spread out, John saw the bodies littering the floor. How long had they been there? Not more than a day, he guessed. If they were all down, why hadn't the mark left the cave? And if he'd had help, why hadn't the help assisted him in getting out?

John pushed aside his questions and rounded the last corner. The door was in sight. He kicked it open and neither of the occupants inside moved. One was just inside the door, only a few bruises marring his skin, neck obviously broken. Nothing about him jumped out to John. If he'd been the mark, then Mycroft was out of luck. The other figure in the room was a mass of blood and torn clothes. His pale chest was bare but the skin was so colored with blood and bruises that it was hard to see anything else. Hair was long and shaggy, matted down so its original color was impossible to discern. Trousers that had presumably once been black were stained with dirt and mud, shredded at the knees, unbuckled at the waist. Ill fitting, hastily tied boots were on his feet.

Years of training kicked in and John was at his side in an instant. He checked for a pulse and found one, thready but insistent. After a quick preliminary check of injuries, John prepared to lift the man. Usually, he'd have done a fireman's lift, but the man was so emaciated that John was able to pick him up with one arm under his knees and the other about his shoulders. The weight was manageable and this way he wouldn't further aggravate the nasty gashes on the man's back. With a quick heft, John was on his feet once more. He started for the door, eyes roving over the body in his arms, already cataloging injuries. Broken knee, serious lacerations to the back, broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, all the fingers on one hand broken. There were angry red marks around his neck as if someone had tried to strangle him. Broken nose, large cut on his cheekbone that would need stitching.

As John stepped out of the cave, the man's head lolled back completely, and for a moment, John was blinded. But he thought- he thought he'd seen- no, he was just seeing things. His mind playing tricks on him because Mycroft was the one who'd sent him out here, because he'd been thinking of Sherlock on the helicopter ride over, because when the pain got to be too much he saw Sherlock's face everywhere. He blinked his suddenly stinging eyes, more eager than ever to get back to the chopper and prove himself wrong. He got into the back, laid out the man on the open space reserved for John to do his work. Inside the helicopter, the light was more muted. As his eyes adjusted, John grabbed his bag and started taking out the items he would need, unable to look at the man's face.

Because when he looked, it wouldn't be Sherlock and somehow, it would be like loosing Sherlock all over again. Knowing logically that Sherlock was dead, had been for two years, didn't stop his heart from yearning. He wished he could be like Sherlock, wished he could be only logical, push aside the sentiment, reject the emotion that crippled him. But he couldn't. He was simply unable to. But he'd faced the emptiness over and over again in the last two years. He could face it again. He had to.

He turned back to the man on the floor of the chopper, used light fingers to tip his chin back so that John could see his face. Could be confronted with the truth.

His heart skipped a beat, then started to thunder.

No.

No.

It wasn't possible.

He smoothed back the long, matted hair with shaking fingers. That forehead, those cheekbones. The nose was broken, but still, John knew that nose. Those lips, that chin. His wild eyes ran down the length of the body before him. It was sickly thin, but the right height, the right structure. Helplessly, John's eyes went back to the face. That face. _Sherlock's _face. Desperate, crazed hope rose up within him. Sherlock.

Sherlock.

"Sherlock?" He finally managed to bring the word to his mouth, to choke it out like a dying man. As if swimming out from under a great burden, the eyelids twitched. "Sherlock?!" John said it as a demand, a prayer. With Herculean effort, one eyelid cracked open, then the other. They blinked hazily as the world came into focus. John watched, breathless, still as a statue until the eyes opened. He stared down. Into Sherlock's eyes. "_Sherlock!_"

From deep within the recesses of his mind, Sherlock heard the call and tried to answer it. He registered the pain as John's arms went around him and held tightly, but the pain was nothing, _nothing_ compared to the joy. John was here. Holding him. John was here. John was safe. His last thought before he blacked out again was _Finally, home._

* * *

_**Reuinted! ~anyone else just get that song instantly in their heads? Reunited and it feels so good...~ anyhow, I hope you loved reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! I try to stay as true as possible to the actual character voices and mannerisms, but of course its never quite perfect. This was a short little chapter...but I bet if you left a review telling me what you think so far, the Chapter Fairy will come along and leave you another little tidbit tonight ; ) **_


	3. Chapter 3

_**Since you are all so wonderful, here is the next little bit as promised, in which John has a conversation with Mycroft and learns why Sherlock left to begin with. Enjoy!**_

In the helicopter, John refused to leave Sherlock's side. After overcoming the initial panic at his friend's black out, John had tended to him. Administered antibiotics, morphine, began bandaging wounds. The extent of them had turned his stomach. Several of them were bleeding freely, and it was a wonder to John that Sherlock hadn't bled out. He'd cut off the trousers for a better look at Sherlock's knee, setting it in a makeshift brace that would last until they reached the hospital. Then he'd gently turned him over and started working on Sherlock's back. There was hardly any skin left to tend to. Almost more horrifying, though, was the startling shock of scarlet smeared down his thigh. Years of training was the only thing that kept John from being sick as he discovered what all had been done to his friend. He felt cold inside, then burning hot. He remembered the man in the room with Sherlock, the one who's neck had been broken. Had Sherlock done it? With a sudden violence that stunned John, he wished he'd been the one to do it. Wished he could have planted his hands on the bastard's head and twisted.

When he'd done all he could from the helicopter, John simply held Sherlock's hand. He traced the long slim lines of his fingers, cringing as he thought of the broken ones on the other hand. But Sherlock was alive. Somehow, impossibly, alive. They could get through everything else. As long as Sherlock was alive.

At the hospital, John was loathe to let the surgeons take Sherlock away. But he knew that they needed to do their jobs. He'd started the process, but there was so much more that would need to be done. Stitches administered- too many to count- broken bones to be reset, tests for infection... Even knowing that it was what was best for his friend, John felt like he was loosing Sherlock all over again as they wheeled him away. He settled in for what he was sure would be the longest several hours of his life until the doctors would let him in to see Sherlock again.

He'd barely sat down in the chair before he shot back up, pacing. He sat again for a moment, then paced more. Finally, he called Mycroft, realizing that Sherlock's brother had known that Sherlock was still alive. Hadn't told John. Had left him in his mourning even for a few hours longer than necessary. Or had Mycroft known from the very beginning? John had a sick feeling he had. How was he supposed to deal with that? He could barely accept that Sherlock was live and hadn't told him for two long years, let alone Mycroft knowing as well.

"Mycroft," he answered his phone curtly.

"How long have you known?" John asked, his voice tight. On the other end of the phone, Mycroft sighed.

"How is my little brother, Dr Watson?"

"He looked like shit when they carted him back to surgery, but he'll probably be fine. How long have you known?"

"What answer will appease you, John? Should I tell you that I only just found out? Will that soothe your mind?"

"The truth," John bit out.

"Use your head. Sherlock is clever, but even he would need help to fake his death so convincingly."

"All along then? You've known from the beginning?"

Mycroft said nothing. John took a deep breath, fearing he would scream at the other man. He wanted to rail against the world, demand retribution for the two years he'd been convinced Sherlock Holmes was dead. The pain it had caused. The loss.

"Why?" The word was torn from John's throat, he couldn't stop it. Mycroft sighed again.

"Perhaps my brother would be better suited to answer that question."

"I'm asking _you_ Mycroft. I deserve an answer, damn it! Tell me why!"

"I am convinced that there is only one thing in this world that could make my brother fake his death, knowing the pain it would bring to you."

"What? To save the world? To prove he's more clever than anyone else?"

"Save the world?" John could practically hear Mycroft's brow lift. "Sherlock isn't nearly so noble and you and I both know it. No, John, the only thing that could force him to knowingly cause you pain, would be to save you. To protect _you_."

John clutched the phone so tightly he feared it might crack. He lost his breath, couldn't catch it, couldn't do any more than listen to the pounding of his own heart.

"Wh-what?" he finally croaked.

"You're aware that my brother cares for you, John. Despite his...uncouth methods of showing it sometimes, you are his best friend in the whole world. He credits you to saving him."

"Saving him?"

"From himself. I'll let him explain all the details to you, should he ever wish to do so, but you must know that he holds you in the highest regard. And if he felt you were threatened..." Mycroft let the words hang in the air. "I honestly can't think of anything he wouldn't do to prevent you coming to harm. And with a man like Sherlock, that means a multitude of possibilities both honourable and morally questionable. His original choice was a truly selfless sacrifice, but thanks to some quick thinking on his part, he was able to stay alive. Until the threat against you had been neutralized, however, he was unwilling to risk your safety by letting it be known he was alive."

"My god," John breathed. Sherlock had been willing to kill himself to save John? _He survived,_ John reminded himself. _He's alive._ Part of John still wanted to lay someone out- either Sherlock or Mycroft- for no one telling him Sherlock had survived. But he simply couldn't grasp the concept that Sherlock had faked his death, left his home and gone through god-knew-what in order to protect John. "He was...trying to protect me..." The words felt thick in his throat.

"Yes. Quite successfully, I might add."

"So then whatever threat was out there-"

"Neutralized. The cave you retrieved him from was the lair of the last man Sherlock had been hunting."

"That's what he's been doing this whole time?"

"Amid a few hours of sleep here and there, and probably eating a bit when he absolutely had to, yes."

John simply didn't know what to say. He stood there, mouth open, shocked to the core. Flashes of Sherlock went through his mind. Pale and still, crumbled on the dirt floor. Bones broken, back ravaged, body tormented. Suddenly, emotion caught in his throat.

"God, Mycroft. Do you know what they did to him?"

"No. But I am certain Sherlock would say that the ends justified the means. He now has what he's been working for. It is safe for him to return to Baker Street with you. Back to normal life."

"I don't know that there is normal life after what he's been through. And I only got to see the physical damage."

"As long as my brother still has his intellect, he will be fine. His intellect and you, Dr Watson. Everything else can be gotten past."

"You sound so certain..."

"I have known Sherlock his whole life. From the very moment of his birth. I feel it safe to say I am one of the only two people in the world who really know him well. You, of course, are the other. So I can say with absolute, utter certainty that as long as his ability to reason is intact and as long as you are at his side, my brother will be fine. No matter what he's been through."

"I wish I could be as sure."

"Give it time. You will come round to my way of thinking eventually." There was a pause. "And John?"

"Yes?"

"Don't be too hard on him."

"What do you mean?"

"Once you get past the initial shock of seeing him alive, once that rush of gratitude has passed, you're going to be angry- very angry- that he's been gone so long. Do try to remember that he was saving your life. And ask yourself, if the situations were reversed, what lengths you would have gone to in order to protect Sherlock."

John put the phone back in his pocket with trembling fingers. He sank into the chair and let his head fall into his hands.

For him.

It had all been for him. Sherlock had sacrificed everything, nearly his life, for John. It hit him like a blow that everything Sherlock had been through was for John. Had he ever thought Sherlock hadn't appreciated him? Had he ever felt taken for granted? How much farther from the truth could it have been?

**_Hope you enjoyed it. As always, drop me a review and tell me what you thought! I absolutely love hearing from you all. I won't keep you waiting long for an update, there will be one for sure tomorrow, maybe even two if you're lucky ; )_**


	4. Chapter 4

_**A short little chapter, in which Sherlock wakes up and has a conversation with John. Happy Reading!**_

Hours later, a pleasant round faced nurse informed John that Sherlock was out of surgery and resting. At the hopeful look on John's face, she told him that his doctor had sedated him, but that John was welcome to wait in his room if he liked. John was up like a shot, barely pausing to ask the nurse what room. He needed to lay eyes on Sherlock again, convince himself once more that Sherlock was alive and -relatively- well.

Inside the room, John stopped by the bed, letting his eyes take in the sight of his best friend. At first, there was only the initial rush of gratitude that he was alive, the pleasure stark and raw within him that Sherlock was miraculously returned to him. Then, he started to notice all the wounds covering the other man's body. They were many and they were vicious. The gash on his cheek had been closed with nearly a dozen stitches, bruises on his face nearly blacking it all out. His lips were chapped and split. The red rings that had circled his neck when John had first found him had begun to fade, leaving a multicolored welt behind. Even through the hospital gown, John could see Sherlock was severely malnourished. Automatically, his eyes flicked up to make sure the doctors had ordered IV nutrition. Then he continued down. The shoulder had obviously been set then bandaged. If the bulk under the gown was any indication, they'd wrapped his broken ribs up. His right hand had a splint on every finger and a cast around his wrist.

Smiling through the mist covering his eyes, John could already tell how much Sherlock would hate that cast. He guessed it would be two, maybe three days after they got home before Sherlock cut the thing off.

Other seemingly random gashes and lacerations had been cleaned and bandaged. His knee had been operated on and was in a brace, elevated off the bed. Though John couldn't see it, he imagined Sherlock's back had been stitched up and bandaged as well. From what he'd seen, there hadn't been much left to work with. He wondered if they'd considered doing skin grafts. Then, his stomach dropped and he wondered what other repairs they'd had to do as a result of his sexual assault.

John had seen victims of rape during the war. More than he ever cared to admit, and he'd never wanted to have to treat another in his lifetime. The physical damage could be repaired, but couldn't forget the flat, dead look he'd seen in the victims' eyes. It haunted him. Worse, he kept imagining Sherlock looking at him with that same glassy look. As if nothing in the world mattered any more.

"Please don't be like that," he muttered to himself, letting his fingers curl around Sherlock's good hand and squeeze tight.

"Only back a few hours and you're already griping at me?" Sherlock's voice was rough and hoarse, but there was humor in it.

"Sherlock?" John leaned closer and watched as Sherlock's eyelids fluttered, then determinately lifted.

"You were expecting someone else?"

"God, Sherlock! You're awake!" The grin that broke over John's face was wide and genuine. Sherlock chuckled, though it hurt.

"So it would seem." He flashed a smile at John. "And you seem happy to see me. I half expected you to try and lay me out flat."

"Yeah, well you're already flat, aren't ya mate?" John shook his head. "Don't get me wrong, I felt like punching someone when I found out you'd been alive this whole time and no one told me, but you were pretty far down on the list."

"Because I'm already injured? Sentiment, John," Sherlock tutted and shook his head.

"Call me soft, but I couldn't seem to want to inflict any more damage on you. I think you're full up. And I've already caused you enough harm." Their eyes met, locked.

"John..." Sherlock shook his head stoically. "Mycroft told you why, then?" At his silence, Sherlock continued on. "There wasn't any other way. You know if there had been one I would have thought of it. This was the only way-"

"Just shut up," John interrupted him. Sherlock blinked, his mouth still open, then he closed it. His brows drew together as he observed the other man. John was truly a sight for sore eyes. After all the time Sherlock had spent missing him, it was wonderful, joyous even, to see him in the flesh. But now that he really looked, he could see the dark rings under John's eyes. The lines on his face that hadn't been there before. The premature grey hairs streaking his temple. The doctor had lost weight, not enough to make him look sickly, but enough to cause alarm.

And those were just the things on the surface. Sherlock could see, in that one look, what John's life had been during the two years of his absence. He could read in every minute detail the pain and loss John had suffered. How strongly it had affected him. The toll it had taken.

"You have had a hard time of it, haven't you John?" The words were soft and full of remorse.

"_Me?_"

"I wish there had been another way."

"Me? Sherlock, you're in the hospital recovering from more injuries than any man has a right to survive, and you're telling me _I _had it rough?"

"Physical pain can be dealt with much more easily than emotional pain," Sherlock said dismissively. If John hadn't been watching- really watching- he might have missed the flash of torment that had flared in Sherlock's eyes. But he didn't miss it. And instantly, his mind went back to what Sherlock had suffered. Should he broach the subject? Pretend he didn't know? Hope Sherlock would come to him in his own time? Dare he recommend talking to someone professional about it?

The concept was laughable, actually. Sherlock detested shrinks. Thought they were all insipid twits. There was no way he would want to bare his soul to one. So what did that leave? John thought back to what Mycroft had said. Sherlock was the most brilliant man John knew. He was obviously still in full possession of his mental faculties. And John certainly wasn't going anywhere. Sherlock's mind and John's heart, that was what would get them through this.

"John?"

John looked up again and found Sherlock studying him intently.

"Sorry. Just...I'm just so glad you're back."

"Me too, John. Me too."

_**Its short, I know, but its just the precursor to the next chapter which I promise will be longer. **_


	5. Chapter 5

_**Here it is, chapter five- in which Sherlock solves the case of The Pinched Puddings and points John in the direction of a nurse with morals of ill repute. Not to worry, this story is still JohnLock all the way ; )**_

_**Happy Reading!**_

Overall, their time in the hospital wasn't as bad as it might have been. Sherlock seemed perfectly content for a few days simply to memorize every line on John's face, hear all about Mrs Hudson, Baker street, Lestrade, and anything to do with home. After a while, though, that massive mind of his got bored with even that. There was nothing to do, no cases to solve from the hospital bed in the small government run facility.

Sherlock had, at least, been momentarily distracted by the mystery of the missing pudding cups, but quickly deduced that the patient down the hall from him, a young soldier wounded in action, had been absconding with said cups. After approximately five seconds of study, Sherlock had announced that the soldier had an intense iron deficiency that the doctors had missed, which had subconsciously caused him to crave the pudding to the point where he stole the cups of every patient on the same floor. Once Sherlock had pointed this out to the doctor and the deficiency had been corrected, the cups stopped disappearing and the case was closed.

John tried to occupy his friend by encouraging him to do experiments on the staff. How many times could the nurse on duty be buzzed before she would stop coming into the room to check on him? (A higher number than either of them expected, 37 times.) How much water could the thin sheets on his bed retain? (a measly five ml of saline, which the staff then grudgingly replaced.) How many times would the doctor on duty allow Sherlock to mispronounce his name before he gave up correcting him? (three, after which he'd handed Sherlock's chart to John and stormed out.)

All in all, it could have been much worse. The only real issue they had, was four days in when the shy, stocky male nurse had come in to give Sherlock his sponge bath. John had been about to excuse himself to give his friend privacy when Sherlock snarled.

"I can bloody well clean myself. Leave the supplies and let me have on with it."

"But sir, you only have one good hand, and you can't be moving about. I'll just nip this off-"

"I said I can do it myself!" Sherlock had smacked the supplies right out of the poor nurse's hand and looked ready to throttle him.

"Sir, the doctor has asked that I-"

"Get out!" Sherlock was so worked up that the vein in his forehead was throbbing. John didn't think he'd ever seen Sherlock so upset. There was anger, yes, but behind that John realized with horror, was fear. Quickly, he stepped between the two.

"Look, he's had a rough go of it. Why don't you just pop out for a bit and we'll get this sorted out."

"John I have not had a 'rough go'-" Sherlock started to protest stubbornly but John cut him off with a look. The confused nurse only nodded and left. "You didn't have to patronize him, he's a grown man, despite still living with his parents."

John didn't even bother to ask how Sherlock had known the nurse was still living with his parents. He was sure there had been some loose thread on his shirt and a certain way his hair was cut that led the detective to the conclusion. Instead, he sighed and turned to his friend.

"Maybe, but you didn't have to be a utter prick to him, now did you?"

"A prick?" Sherlock looked taken aback. "Excuse me, John, if I didn't take kindly to the thought of that...that _sod_ wiping me down with antiseptic. I'm perfectly capable-"

"No, you're not. And you and I both know that's not what that was about. You would have insulted him, probably in ways he didn't even understand, but you wouldn't have put on like that if there wasn't something else going on. I've seen you mad with people's stupidity and their hesitance to conform to your every directive. You get snide, you get snarky, but I've never once seen you get emotional about it."

"Emotional?" Sherlock said the word as if it was a curse. "I most certainly was not-"

"Yes, you were." The quiet resolution in John's tone had Sherlock pausing. Could his friend really see through him so clearly?

The thought of that nurse putting his hands on him, even in an obviously professional way, had made Sherlock's stomach churn. Despite his brain's desperate attempt to control his body, cold sweat had instantly broken out on his skin. He _had_ gotten emotional. How had he let himself be ruled by such a meaningless reaction as unfounded fear?

"Maybe," he admitted grudgingly, "there was for a moment, a small bit of emotion driving my reaction."

"A small bit?" John gave Sherlock a small smile, despite the pain around his heart at the situation.

"Yes. A small bit."

"There's nothing wrong with that, you know." John sat back in the chair next to Sherlock's bed and watched his friend.

"Of course there's something wrong with it. There's everything wrong with it. I'm not some weakling ruled by his feelings," Sherlock sneered.

"Showing feelings doesn't make you weak, Sherlock."

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something cutting, but the look on the doctor's face gave him pause. He took a deep breath and let it out.

"Say what's on your mind, John."

"I just think that maybe, if you were willing to admit, even to yourself, that there are some unresolved issues, it might help. And maybe talking to someone-"

"I don't need a shrink to poke round my head and tell me that trauma will take some time to get past. I'm a big boy. I already know that."

"There are people who specialize in-" John couldn't say the words. He stopped, knowing full well the futility of the conversation. He'd already known Sherlock would never see a therapist. But was the man so unwilling to face the entirety of what had been done to him that he refused to even admit that it had happened?

"Who specialize in what?" Sherlock studied John's face, picking up the subtle clues that had eluded him before. John knew. Of course he did. He'd been the physician who'd first examined Sherlock. So why had some part of him been hoping that John _didn't_ know? It was foolish. He'd done nothing wrong. Those injuries weren't any more shameful than the whip marks on his back. But they felt that way. Damnable, useless emotion. And damn his inability to read John Watson. Oh he could read the obvious, of course. He could tell that John hadn't brought a change of clothing with him and had been wearing the same shirt for nearly a week. He could tell John had used one of the nurse's razors to shave his face. A small single bladed pink monstrosity. But he was simply too close to John to read the things he really wanted to see. His attachment to the man, his insecurities, clouded his deductive abilities when it came to John.

"In assault." John forced the words past his lips, needing to make it mundane and conquerable. To make it something not so dark and shameful. "Sexual assault."

"And why," Sherlock drawled, "would I need a specialist? Is sexual assault so much more traumatic than regular old assault that I would need a _specialist_ to deal with it?" It was all bravado, then. He knew exactly what John meant. Knew, first hand, why sexual assault was so much worse than beatings or whippings or broken bones. But he didn't think he could bear to share that weakness, even with John.

"Look, forget about it," John said with a sigh. "I know you're not going to talk to a bloody therapist. I've known that from the start. I just think...there are issues. Ones you'll need to address so as not to scare the pants off the next poor nurse who draws the short straw and gets assigned to your sponge bath."

"Actually, I'd like to scare his pants _on_." Sherlock murmured. John stared at him, utterly shocked. He sat dumbfounded. Then, slowly, he began to chuckle. It turned into a full belly laugh. Sherlock smirked, then joined the laughter.

"Jesus, Sherlock, only you could make a comment like that. Only you."

"I am unique," Sherlock said with a grin.

"Yes, that you are," John agreed. He was relieved that Sherlock still had the ability to joke about such things. It meant that he was still the same man, that he hadn't been changed at his core because of what he'd been through. There would be repercussions, more events like the sponge bath catastrophe, but they could get through them. Together, they could. John cleared his throat. "Really, though, if you need to talk to someone-" He held up a hand when Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Not a therapist. A friend. I'm here."

Sherlock looked long and hard at John. He knew, logically, that John was merely extending a courtesy to a friend. But the emotion in him, the silly sentiment, couldn't help but be touched by the offer. "I'm not planning on burdening you with the full sordid details of what happened to me," he finally said softly.

"I don't expect you to. How much you feel you need to share is up to you. But I'll listen to whatever you have to say."

"That's not fair to you, John."

"Why not? You were there when I needed someone to talk to. You were there when the nightmares about the war got too intense."

"I didn't do anythin-"

"You listened. That was enough. And you...distracted me from it, until I could heal."

Sherlock let the words sink in. He didn't think he'd done much for John in respect to his war experiences. He'd offered to listen when the doctor couldn't sleep at two in the morning. He'd cured John's psychosomatic limp the second time he'd ever met the man. But it hadn't really been anything for Sherlock. He'd enjoyed getting John to realize he didn't need the sodding cane. And listening to him after a particularly bad nightmare only seemed fair to him since so often, Sherlock woke John up with his music or one of his experiments. It had seemed...right. Natural.

But this was more. What John was talking about wasn't just a one sided problem. Not only would it be hard for Sherlock to open up, to admit the emotions- how scared he'd been, how humiliated, how ashamed- but it would be hard for John too. John _cared._ God only knew why, but John cared, and it would hurt him to hear what Sherlock had gone through. Sherlock shook his head.

"It wouldn't be right to put you through that, John. I'm not as cold as people make me out to be, you know."

"No, you're not cold. I know that, perhaps better than anyone. But I'm asking you to let me help." He shook his head. "Its...its the least I can do."

"The lea..." Sherlock trailed off as he realized what John meant. "John. Don't. Don't for one second put this on yourself. You and that bloody big heart of yours can take credit for a lot of things, but not for this."

John knew there was no point in disagreeing with Sherlock, though he was a long way from believing him. "Just- just promise me that you'll let me help, if I can. That you'll talk to me if you need to. You trust me that much, right?"

"I trust you with my life," Sherlock said sincerely.

"Right then. Good." John cleared his throat and smiled. "Mean time, do try and clean yourself up a bit. You smell like you've been living in a cave for the last two months."

Sherlock smothered his smile. "I wonder why..." he said in a deadpan tone. They stared at each other a few moments, then snickered.

"I'll just nip out for a bit then, leave you to it. Bet there's a nurse handy to flirt with."

"I'd stay away from our shy would-be sponge bath giver if I were you. Living with the parents is never good for a one off. Unless you don't mind a quick shag behind a bush, that is..."

"A _female_ nurse, Sherlock."

"Ah, right then. Off you go. I believe there's one two-" he paused, listened, "no, three doors down with questionable morals. I'd start there." John rolled his eyes and started for the door. "Unless-" He paused at Sherlock's word, his hand on the door handle. "Unless you'd be willing to play nurse maid for a bit since this blasted thing's useless." He raised his broken right hand. "Right side's no problem, of course, but your chair is on the left. Just an offer for the sake of your olfactory senses."

John stopped, brows drawn together. He turned back to Sherlock fully. "You'd be ok with that?" Sherlock, who'd been studying the wipes left behind for him, looked up. His confusion was clear in the planes of his face.

"Ok with what? We've been flatmates for a long while now, John, I don't think I'll get shy at you seeing the underside of my arm."

"But, I mean-" John stopped, shook his head. He'd just assumed... Suddenly, Sherlock caught on. A pained look crossed his face.

"I told you that I trust you with my life. I may still be experiencing some foolish discomfort at the thought of a strange man touching me, but you're not a stranger. You're my-" He stopped, cleared his throat and shifted on the bed. "You're my...ah, friend. Only friend. And I have absolutely no fear that you might have nefarious intentions whilst washing this dirt off me."

"I, wow. Well thank you?" He went back around the bed to Sherlock's left side and sat. "I think I'm flattered."

"Flattered that I don't think you're going to jump me?"

"I don't think you thought the nurse was going to jump you, either," John said softly. "Not logically anyways. So yeah, the fact that those fears don't apply to me is, well, nice."

Sherlock settled back against his pillows, studying John. For the first time, he wondered at the fact that there was absolutely no fear when it came to the doctor. He knew, had always known, that he trusted John. But it struck him for the first time that maybe it was surprising that he could be so utterly comfortable with the thought of John touching him. That he had such absolute faith in John. Unwavering trust. Because that's what it was. John was so far removed from the atrocities that had occurred to Sherlock that he felt not even the slightest stir of fear at the thought of the man putting his hands on him. He tried to tell himself that it was just logic. He knew, logically, that John would never harm him. But he knew, deep down, that it had nothing to do with logic. It was all wrapped up in that silly sentiment. He cared for John and knew John cared for him in return. That emotion gave them the ease of companionship that they shared. A small smile stole over Sherlock's face. "Yes," he murmured. "Yes, I suppose it is."

**_That's all for now, folks. Next chapter will probably come Thursday or Friday, and will address the long debated question of Sherlock's sexuality!_**


	6. Chapter 6

_**Hello my lovelies! My present to you, chapter 6, in which Sherlock ponders his sexuality and his relationship with our favorite army doctor, John!**_

John lay asleep in the chair beside Sherlock's bed. He was utterly knackered and desperately needed the rest. Sherlock studied him. Even in sleep, his body was turned toward Sherlock, his hand resting on the bed. As if he was subconsciously seeking to be closer to the detective. Thoughts whirled in Sherlock's mind, each more confusing than the last.

Sherlock didn't consider himself gay. Nor did he consider himself straight. And despite what it might seem, he wasn't asexual. He honestly didn't consider himself someone who fit into any category created. He was, as usual, unique. He could appreciate the social norms and conformity that indicated beauty. But he'd never been stirred sexually by attractive people of either sex. It was possible that he simply needed more to form desire for someone physically. Base desires were...boring. The chemical impulses that drove humans were easily quantifiable, and quite predictable. Someone needed intellect to tempt him. And of course no one had an intellect to match Sherlock Holmes.

The exception to that, quite possibly, was John Watson. It wasn't that John was brilliant. John was plenty smart, as far as people went, but his mind certainly didn't function at Sherlock's pace. And John was perfectly appealing physically. That wasn't it either, though. There was something more about him that piqued Sherlock's interest. He put up with Sherlock's idiosyncrasies, which was certainly a plus. They got on, which was not only surprising but also ridiculously pleasant. John was funny, caring, and had possibly the biggest heart of anyone Sherlock had ever known. So maybe it was all those things together that created the package Sherlock found not only appealing, but desirable.

John was a puzzle...and Sherlock loved puzzles.

No matter how long they spent together, though, Sherlock didn't think he'd ever really figure out his flatmate. There was tension between them certainly. Occasionally they skirted the edges of flirtation. Their chemistry was undeniable. The first case they'd worked together, John had expressed interest in Sherlock romantically, though he'd been confused about it. At the time, Sherlock hadn't seen any reason to pursue that avenue of a relationship so he'd politely rebuffed the man. By the time Sherlock realized he was interested in John as a possible romantic partner, John had started seeing other women and never showed any interest- aside from their casual sexual tension- in renewing his invitation.

So Sherlock had never broached the subject again. He certainly wasn't a slave to his baser desires. And while his curiosity was piqued that he'd finally found someone with whom he might be able to explore further sexual situations, he was just fine staying merely friends. John seemed almost uncomfortable with the idea of them together, going so far as to tell perfect strangers that they weren't a couple. Sherlock failed to see how it was anyone's business and never bothered to correct people who made erroneous assumptions.

Occasionally, Sherlock wondered if John's confusion over his sexuality had stopped him from ever suggesting a relationship again. That first night it had all seemed so clear. The dilating of his pupils, the increase in heart rate, the slight flush to his cheeks. Clear signs of interest and arousal, despite his insistence that he wasn't gay. (Such an insipid term. What moron had deemed it necessary to label such a volatile thing as sexuality?) The major problem was that by the time Sherlock was interested, he was too emotionally invested to have unhindered use of his faculties. John had been seeing women. Women he was clearly attracted to, even if they were all a bit dull. And though Sherlock had studied his flatmate, knew his many moods and expressions, he simply couldn't tell any longer if the signs were still there for himself. Foolish damn _emotion_. He'd grown attached to John, content when they were together, disquieted when they were apart. He found himself caring about the man, his feelings, his well-being, everything. And as soon as he'd crossed that line, he was no longer an impartial judge.

Yes, the tension was there still. But Sherlock could no longer be sure if the signs he read as attraction were actually attraction or if he was simply seeing what he wanted to see. And because John cared for him deeply, he stopped being able to tell what was simple affection and concern, and what could possibly be desire or even love.

So they sat on the precipice Sherlock and John had created, neither taking a leap of faith. John clung to his insistence that he wasn't gay, and never made another attempt at more. Sherlock admitted his attraction, but didn't press the issue. It was as if they both knew they could have something great together, but neither was willing to step over the edge and into the unknown.

As he watched John sleep, Sherlock considered his sexuality again. It seemed strange to him that the one man he'd ever had sexual thoughts about, was the one man he now trusted to touch him. In light of recent events, that was strange, wasn't it? Or maybe it made perfect sense. He just couldn't tell. What he did know, was that he was still attracted to the doctor. He'd wondered, hanging in that hellish cave waiting for the next round of torment, if he'd ever be able to feel any kind of sexual stirrings ever again. They'd been such a surprise the first time that he'd worried the tenuous thread would be severed by his assault. It wouldn't have been such a huge loss, all things considered. He didn't know if anything would ever happen between him and John and he was ok with that. So, what would he be missing out on? He would be perfectly content to care about John for the rest of his life, to be happy for John when he found a nice woman to marry and start a family with. He never had any intentions of pushing John in a sexual way and was happy just to have him in his life.

Even still, he was glad, as he watched the moonlight play across John's face, that he could still feel the stirrings of longing. He realized that he would have missed that. Missed seeing John and feeling that pull to him. The warmth that curled in his belly, the delicious possibility that with that man, he might finally loose his breath, might finally feel his heart pound in anticipation, might be able to experience that mind numbing nirvana all the books wrote about. Just the possibility was enough for him. The knowledge that it _might be_ was enough.

There was a part of him that wished, even just for one night, John would express interest in taking their relationship further. There was always the possibility that nothing would come of it and the spark that was between them couldn't be tended into flame. But if it could be...if it could happen, Sherlock had no doubt it would be wondrous.

Suddenly, Sherlock was furious. He wanted to scream, to lash out at everything and everyone around him. He wanted to find the men that had defiled him and _break_ them. Body and spirit. Because before, on the few occasions that Sherlock had thought about sex, his mind had turned to John. Now, his thoughts were torn between the light and the dark. Between what could be, and what had been. He knew that what had been done to him wasn't _sex_. In another world, if he and John ever were together, it would be nothing like that. But because of what had happened, his mind kept drawing similarities. Yes, the act itself was the same. The parts involved would mirror that disgusting sham of intercourse. He was furious that he didn't have the experience to draw on to know just how different it would be.

Because his only experiences with sex had been clinical and emotionless, he didn't consider them in the same category as what it would be like between him and John. The emotion there, the spark, would change the experience drastically, of that he was sure. He wanted to have the knowledge that what he'd been put through would feel nothing like consensual sex with a partner you were attracted to. Drawing upon his short lived experimentations didn't help. Because he was smart enough to know how to have sex properly, heterosexual and homosexual, there had never been pain before. Even still, compared to what he felt was possible with John, both experiences seemed...wrong. It was all so mixed up in his head and he didn't know how to sort it out! His fist clenched in the sheets, frustration washing over him in crashing waves.

With a sigh, he forced himself to relax. Railing against the world wouldn't help him any. If anything, he should simply be grateful that the sweet anticipation of what could be was still possible for him.

Dawn crept into the sky, throwing soft pink rays across John's still form. His chest rose and fell steadily, vitality bursting through him even in repose. Sherlock felt, not for the first time, that curious expanding feeling around his heart. Emotion. Sentiment. _So foolish_, he reminded himself. But as he let it course through him, he smiled. He couldn't regret loving John Watson. It was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

_**Don't forget to drop me a line and let me know what you think! And in the next chapter...Sherlock and John go home!**_


	7. Chapter 7

_**Chapter 7 everyone! In which Sherlock and John get a lift from Mycroft, and Mrs Hudson reacts to her favourite tenants' return.**_

_**Happy Reading!**_

After two weeks in the hospital, Sherlock had had enough. John could tell by the fact that Sherlock had cut himself free of the IV and monitors and had somehow managed to borrow beg or steal a set of clothing. It was illfitting on his slender frame, but at least it was something other than a hospital gown. He looked over his chart, apparently decided it looked good enough, and invited John to join him in the break out.

John couldn't help but smile. Even when the doctors all went into a flutter and tried to get Sherlock to stay. They were all waved off, though, in that dismissive manner Sherlock had. The bruising on his face had faded, the welt around his neck nearly gone. If not for the cast and splints on his right hand, the healing cut on his cheek, and the pronounced limp because of the knee brace, no one would ever guess Sherlock Holmes had just come off two months of torture.

As they rode down in the elevator, John realized they had no money, no vehicle, and no knowledge of the country side. He needn't have worried, however. As soon as they stepped outside, a sleek black helicopter set down in front of them.

"Borrowed your phone to call for our ride," Sherlock called to John casually over the sound of the whirring propeller. "Hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," John replied just as casually, stepping into the helicopter as if things like this happened every day. He realized, then, that with Sherlock back in his life, it was actually possible that it would be a daily occurrence.

Inside the chopper, Mycroft sat in the back waiting for them. Sherlock eyed him for a while, then turned his attention to the country side.

"Alright, then?" Mycroft asked nonchalantly. Sherlock turned back to him, fully aware that his brother would have gone through his medical files in great detail.

"Perfectly," he replied. His eyes strayed somewhat tellingly to John. Mycroft noticed instantly but didn't comment. In truth, he was glad that Sherlock had found someone to share his life with. Whatever manner they chose to do it in.

And that was all the conversation that passed between the brothers for the entirety of the ride. It was strange to John how they interacted. If Harry had just come off some life threatening venture, John was sure that even with all their problems there still would be some show of affection between them. A hug at the least. Questions about how they were, what had happened while they were gone, expressions of relief that the other was safe.

Somehow, John knew that the Holmes brothers had a connection buried deep. They just handled it differently. Mycroft's casually uttered, "alright, then?" had been the Holmes version of a hug and a thousand questions about well-being. And Sherlock's, "perfectly," was a deeply masked expression of gratitude for the concern, for providing the way for John to reach him, for flying halfway across the world to pick him up when he'd tired of the hospital. John shook his head. No, he would never understand them, but at least now he could see below the surface.

Once they arrived back in London, Mycroft handed Sherlock a large packet neatly labeled with his name. "That's all the papers you'll need to resurrect yourself, Sherlock. You'll find that all your assets are exactly as they were two years ago. And if I am correct, I believe your flat is also much the way it was before you left." He turned to John for confirmation.

"Oh, yes. I haven't changed much." Anything. He hadn't changed anything at all. It was as if some part of his heart had been preparing for this day. As if somewhere inside, he'd known that Sherlock couldn't be dead.

"Much appreciated," Sherlock said to both of them.

"I suspect you'll have a bit of notoriety now that you're back." Mycroft signalled to a car down the street. The sleek black vehicle pulled up next to him. "Do try to stay out of trouble, won't you Sherlock?"

"I make no promises," Sherlock replied with only a hint of a smile. When Mycroft sighed and shook his head, the smile widened. He did so enjoy baiting his brother.

When the car pulled away, John and Sherlock looked up and down the street together. "Cab?" John finally asked.

"Actually, I'd like to walk, if you don't mind. I need to refamiliarize myself with the city. My mental road map is bound to be rubbish after two years away."

"You do know you're not supposed to be on that knee, don't you?"

"Triviances," Sherlock said with a wave of his hand. "Pity you don't still have that ridiculous cane, though. Could come in handy about now." He heaved a dramatic sigh and John laughed.

* * *

They arrived on Baker street two hours later. Sherlock had spent the walk memorizing every new bit of road and walk way. He'd also spotted a few members of his homeless network and asked them to spread the word to the others that he was still alive. All in all it was a very productive walk, and quite worth the pain he was now feeling throb angrily in his knee.

As soon as they went through the door, Mrs Hudson called out to John, asking him if he wanted a cup of tea, as she had the kettle already on.

"No, I think I'll pass, Mrs Hudson. But there is someone else here who might like a cuppa."

"Oh? Who did you bring home, John-" She was walking out to the entry way and then stopped dead at the sight of Sherlock. Her hands trembled, her eyes wide. For a moment, John and Sherlock worried that the lady would faint dead away. "Sh-Sherlock?"

"Yes, Mrs Hudson." He smiled at her winningly. She took two steps toward him, faltered, then took another two steps. Once she was close enough, a single tear fell from her eye and she caught a sob in her throat. Then she launched her frail fist against his chest.

"You prat!"

"Mrs Hudson!" John was aghast. And he was worried about Sherlock's ribs. The older lady was frail, but there was strength left in her yet.

"No, its fine, John." Sherlock caught Mrs Hudson's shoulders in his hands and drew her against his chest. She sobbed fully now, letting go of the restraint. She battered at his chest lightly a few more times, her cries muffled into his coat. "Ssh, there now," he soothed. John only watched them, fascinated at the exchange. Despite their somewhat curt attitudes towards each other from time to time, it was clear that Sherlock looked to Mrs Hudson as a mother figure of sorts. He could recall with startling clarity, how Sherlock had punished the CIA man who'd roughed up Mrs Hudson years before.

"I thought...I believed...Sherlock, you're alive!"

"That I am, Mrs Hudson. Though how I've survived these years without your tea remains a mystery to me." He tipped her chin up with a gentle hand and smiled at her again. She smiled back, then focused on his cut.

"Oh Sherlock! Your face! What've you done to it?"

"Minor run in with some characters of questionable repute," he dismissed. John nearly choked at Sherlock's casual way of referring to the men who'd tortured him for so long. But he knew that Sherlock would never cause their landlady the pain that telling her the truth would bring. She tutted, patted his cheek gently, then blushed when Sherlock kissed her forehead.

"You just go on upstairs and get yourself settled in," she said happily. "I'll go get that cuppa and you can have a nice sit down." She turned and bustled back into her kitchen to get the tea. Sherlock only smiled after her, then headed up the stairs.

John watched him like a hawk as he climbed, wary of any pain he might be in because of his knee. Sherlock made it up to their flat without problem, though, and stopped at the threshold. In that moment, John wished more than anything he could see into the mind of his best friend. See with those eyes what Sherlock saw. Did he think it pathetic? Alarming? Amusing?

Sherlock could hardly breathe as he looked around the flat he hadn't seen for two years. If he'd ever doubted John's affection, his feelings would have shown crystal clear, through the state of the rooms. Sherlock's mug sat on the coffee table, obviously washed but still sitting where he usually had it. His dressing gown was still tossed casually over his chair, exactly where he'd left it two years ago. His violin was propped gently against the window where Sherlock liked to play. It was all there, exactly as he'd left it. It was as if he'd never been gone. The only signs that life had continued after his absence showed in the wear of the carpet, where John had paced before the mantle. The slight dipping in the cushion of Sherlock's chair. He could tell John had spent many a night there. The laptop that usually sat prominently on John's desk was closed and pushed aside as if in anger.

If John could have seen inside Sherlock's head at that moment, he would have been stunned. Because Sherlock was stunned. He felt, for the first time, awe. He was humbled. Touched deeply. He wanted, desperately, to turn and look at the man who'd left this for him. The man who'd kept Sherlock alive in his heart for two long years without hope. But he knew that there was emotion shining in his eyes. He couldn't control it. He was taken aback, so utterly startled by the intensity of it that he didn't stand a chance of resisting it. Instead, he stepped through the door and took a turn about the room. He let his fingers stray softly across the strings of the violin and felt it resonate beneath his touch. He longed to pick it up, but knew if he played, it too would betray his emotions. He'd used the music as an outlet of emotion before, but this was just too keen, to sharp to put on display. Then he crossed to his chair and studied it more closely. He could see where John's head had rested on long, lonely nights. How he'd tucked his compact body into the chair. He could even see very small telltale signs of where the man had rested his hand, almost hesitantly, against the soft fabric of the dressing gown strewn atop it.

When he was sure his face wouldn't betray him, he sat himself carefully in the chair and met John's eyes. The uncertainty there made a rush of sympathy course through him. John was waiting for his reaction. Lest he give away the full extent of it, Sherlock schooled his features and flashed a soft smile at John.

"It feels as if I never left," he murmured. John let out a shaky laugh.

"I know what you mean," he replied softly. "If I close out all the rest, I can almost imagine that the last two years never happened. That you've been here all along."

Sherlock knew what John meant by 'all the rest.' He meant the grief. The pain. All the sorrow loosing Sherlock had caused him. Sherlock opened his mouth, determined to say something- maybe something that would let his carefully checked emotions slip, reveal him. But before he could, Mrs Hudson came in and set down the tea tray.

"Should I use the mug I've brought up, then, Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson looked at Sherlock's old mug, sitting on the table.

"No, I think I'll use mine thanks. John's left it out for me. I think its time it got used again." He never took his eyes off John. Mrs Hudson looked between the two men, realizing she'd interrupted a moment. She looked to each of them, _her boys_ as she thought of them, and smiled to herself. Everything would be alright now. Sherlock was home. Content with that, she poured the tea into Sherlock's mug, kissed the top of his head, and went back downstairs. At the foot of the stairs, her feet moved in a shaky little jig, her bad hip turning the moves a bit wonky. But in her head, it was a celebratory cha-cha, smooth as can be. Sherlock was home. Yes, everything would be alright now.

_**What did you think? Tune in tomorrow for the next chapter...and maybe a kiss! ; )**_


	8. Chapter 8

_**This next chapter is a long one! In which John explores his feelings, then (finally) acts on them! Do I see a kiss in their future?**_

After sharing a quiet cup of tea, Sherlock excused himself to shower and change. He wanted to be back in his own clothes, to firmly establish himself back in his home. He almost couldn't believe it. John called out to him to make sure and not damage the cast on his wrist or the brace on his knee. And to not get his stitches wet. And to make sure he wrapped his ribs back up once he was done. Sherlock only smiled and let John carry on. It was John's way. It was part of that deliciously mysterious thing about John that Sherlock could never quite grasp. What made him unique in all the world. What made him the only person Sherlock was irresistibly drawn to. That indescribable quality that Sherlock loved.

After the shower, which had been more soothing than any drug know to man could ever be, he donned one of his own t shirts and pajama bottoms. When he returned to the sitting room with bandages in hand, John was watching the hallway, waiting for him. As if afraid once he let Sherlock out of his sight, he might disappear. Sherlock couldn't blame him. Wordlessly, he offered the dressings to John, who took them and gestured to Sherlock to lift his shirt. He'd seen the bruising while helping Sherlock wash his side, of course, but somehow they looked so much uglier in the light of 221B. Those bruises didn't belong in their home. They belonged in some other place. Far away from their refuge.

As he wrapped Sherlock's ribs tightly, John also subtly checked the lacerations on his back. They had mostly healed in the hospital, all but the deepest. Sherlock's back looked like a road map of scars. They formed a macabre constellation of raised flesh across his pale back. Sherlock didn't even seem to notice them any longer. John, though, would never forget them. He couldn't. They were inside his mind, cemented in his memory forever. Even when they faded from Sherlock's skin, and the lightest of them were bound to do so, John would be able to trace their location years from now. He would recall them all as if they were still vividly there.

Sherlock held his breath as he was wrapped, unwilling to grunt in pain from John's work. He knew the bandages had to be tight in order to be effective, but John didn't have to know quite how much they hurt him. So he closed his eyes and retreated onto the steps of his mind palace. He didn't need to go inside for such a trivial pain, especially compared to what he'd been through before, but it helped him just to stand on the threshold. As he did, he couldn't help but look around and be reminded of the ugly carvings on the walls and floors. The constant reminders of what had happened in that cave. He could study them clinically now, see them for what they were and look past them. But he still couldn't prevent the shiver of disgust and fear they caused him. Thankfully, the reaction was internal.

Finished, John gently lowered Sherlock's shirt and took his seat across from his best friend. In so many ways, it really was as if he'd never been gone. It was surreal, having him right there, the only outward signs of his ordeal the gaunt lines to his handsome, angular face. But internally, the difference felt as if it was night and day for John. He'd always been fascinated by Sherlock. From the very first, Sherlock had swept him away with his brilliance. John had even been amused and charmed by Sherlock's utter innocence about social niceties. Those little quirks that others saw as cruelty or callousness, John knew to be ignorance of that oh-so-important thing called tact. Sherlock wasn't cold. He spoke the truth as he saw it. And he saw everything. That honesty had been refreshing for John.

They'd hit it off famously even from that first case they'd worked together. Sherlock had made an immediate friend in John with his brutal honesty and quick wit. That had grown into loyalty, affection, devotion. He'd admitted to all those things before Sherlock had gone. What he'd never admitted to himself, was the love.

John loved Sherlock, in a way that both confused and frightened him for so long that he'd smothered it. Before loosing him, John had shied away from the word love. He knew there were so many forms of love, familial love, friendly love, love of country, but what he felt for Sherlock so resembled romantic love that he'd pushed it away rather than admit that what he felt for Sherlock was akin to what one would feel for a lover. He'd been skittish of it, sometimes embarrassed by it. For a long while, he'd fancied himself struck with a case of hero worship. But as Sherlock had pointed out to him on no uncertain terms, he was no hero. It was true in so many ways. Sherlock was deeply flawed, arrogant and in many ways despite his brilliance, naïve. But John loved those things about him too.

After burying Sherlock, John had finally let himself admit those feelings. He'd poured his heart out over Sherlock's grave. Admitted how much he truly cared for him. What he wouldn't give to have Sherlock back. How he wished he could have told Sherlock, just once, that he loved him. He didn't know what it meant- for him, for them- but he'd mourned deeply not just the loss of the man himself but also that Sherlock had never known just how much he was loved.

He was almost certain that no one had ever said it to Sherlock. John didn't know much about Sherlock's childhood, but he was aware that it wasn't a pleasant one. He'd been alone for much of his life. Even Mycroft, who John knew truly cared for Sherlock, wasn't the type of man to come out and say such a thing, even in the face of deadly peril. But everyone- and especially someone like Sherlock- deserved to be told that they are loved. John had regretted bitterly for two years that he'd never told his best friend how he truly felt.

Now though, he wasn't sure quite how to say it. Sherlock trusted him. He put utter faith in John that he'd never hurt Sherlock. In light of what he'd gone through, John found that nothing short of miraculous. How would it make him feel, then, if the only man he trusted in all the world suddenly blurted out that he was in love with him? Surely love was never a bad thing. But John didn't know what could trigger those dark memories in Sherlock. Could he take that chance?

He thought about all the times that he'd prayed for just one more moment with Sherlock. Just one chance to tell him how he felt. To hold him. To look at him. It felt so disingenuous to all those vows he'd made to sit with Sherlock one instant longer without saying the words out loud. But what would the consequences be? And more, what exactly did John want?

He'd spent years trying to convince people that he and Sherlock weren't a couple. The closeness that they shared, their casual intimacy, their obvious compatibility constantly gave people the wrong impression. John had never in his life been attracted to a man. When Sherlock had first thanked John for his interest and politely turned him down, John had been left baffled and a little worried. He hadn't been flirting with the man for pities sake. Or had he? In their time together, he'd learned at least one thing with absolute certainty. When the most observant man in the world thinks you're flirting with him...you probably are.

That realization had left him shaken. How had he found himself attracted to another man? But then, over time, he'd come to terms with it. Sherlock wasn't just any man. It wasn't that Sherlock was effeminate in any way. Quite the opposite in fact. It was just that Sherlock was, quite simply, alluring. Had he been born with breasts, John would have been trying to get him into the sack their first night together. Because he was male, it had taken him longer to admit to the attraction. And even once he'd admitted to it, he'd fought it. Not only did the idea of physical intimacy with a man disquiet him, but the implications of what it might do to their friendship intimidated him as well. They were flatmates, partners, best friends. And though it had been unintentional (or so he'd thought) John had gotten Sherlock's feelings on the subject that first night.

Sherlock considered himself married to his work. While he was flattered, he simply wasn't interested. When he recalled that conversation later on, he would always be confused by it, unsure if Sherlock was interested in men, women, or neither. Over time together, John had grown to the idea that Sherlock simply didn't have any interest in sex. It would, John was quite sure, bore him. Even after living together for years, John had no idea if Sherlock handled his own needs, or if he'd simply mastered that part of himself and no longer had them. He certainly didn't think Sherlock was sneaking out of the flat for a quick shag in the dead of night, which curiously left him relieved. Would he be jealous of any sexual partners of Sherlock?

Hell yes.

But he knew that he wouldn't have the right to ever express that jealousy if such a partner ever did appear. He wasn't willing to make a move on Sherlock, so he didn't have the right to be envious of someone who did. It made John grateful, then, when no one came into Sherlock's life that way. Which, of course, made him mad at himself. He wanted his friend to be happy. He just didn't want him to find it with another person. And he didn't want to risk what they had by offering to be that person. It was all a twisted mess.

Did he really want to be that person for Sherlock, fears aside? John tried to force himself to consider the question with brutal honesty, the way Sherlock would. Did he like Sherlock- yes. Did he care for Sherlock- yes. Did he want to spend his life without Sherlock- no. Did he love Sherlock- yes. Was he attracted to Sherlock...yes. So was the only thing holding him back his fear of rejection? No, if he was honest, it was more than that. He'd always been adamant about his sexuality, and by his own admission, it didn't include men. But it wasn't as if the idea offended him. Hell, Harry had come out at sixteen and John had been the first person she told. Despite their differences, he'd been happy for his sister. He didn't give a rat's arse who she snogged, so long as she was happy. So why had he clung to the idea of himself as straight for so long?

He really wasn't sure. Maybe it had been his last protection against Sherlock. If he convinced himself that he couldn't possibly be attracted to the man, then there wasn't anything to loose by his cowardice. No lost chances. He couldn't loose what he'd never wanted to begin with. But oh, he did want it. For the first time in his waking hours, he let himself think about kissing Sherlock. It was something he'd experienced in his dreams, but always after Sherlock had gone, he'd pushed them aside in the daylight. It somehow had always felt disrespectful to his memory to dwell on such dreams. As if, since he'd never acted upon them in Sherlock's life, he didn't deserve even the fantasy of them in his death. But now Sherlock was back. He was right in front of John whole and alive and still so very tempting.

He imagined himself settling on the floor between Sherlock's knees, their foreheads leaned against one anothers', lips hovering...then finally descending together in a feather light caress. He shivered, then repressed the reaction, aware that Sherlock Holmes was sitting not two feet away from him, watching him. Could he see it in John's face already? Was he disgusted with his friend? Disappointed? ...afraid?

"Tell me what you've been thinking about just now, John," Sherlock's deep voice interrupted his thoughts. His eyes widened in surprise, apprehension clouding them momentarily. What all had Sherlock read in his face?

"You mean you can't tell? There isn't some microscopic twitch of my eyebrow, some here-to unnoticed twitch in my cheek that gives my thoughts away?" He tried to cover his discomfort with a smile. Sherlock only studied him harder, as if trying to see right into his soul. His brows knitted in thought.

"No," he finally said quietly. "You are my blind spot, John."

"Blind spot?"

"I can read most people like a book. Fears, desires, fantasies, secrets. But you...I'm too close to truly read you. I can see fear when its there, yes, and discomfort and happiness and any other in a wide range of emotions. But so often your thoughts remain a total mystery to me. Just now, you looked...concerned. Then pensive, then you looked almost terrified. Then..." He stopped as if trying to decide quite how to say his next words. "Then, for a moment, I thought I saw..." He shook his head, cleared it of the thought and peered up at John. "But I can't tell anymore what you're thinking. The disadvantage of sentiment, I'm afraid. Its quite the cost."

"Would you rather have the ability to know what I'm thinking, than care?"

Sherlock shook his head again slowly. "Wouldn't change it for the world, John. But it doesn't make it any easier that I can't read you. So tell me. What were you thinking?"

John waited a beat, reassuring himself that Sherlock cared. Deeply. Enough that he willingly sacrificed his 'sight' for it. "I was thinking," he started slowly. "About regrets."

"Regrets?" That deep, beautiful voice resonated in John's heart.

"Things I wish I'd have said. Wish I'd have done. Before. When I thought I'd lost you. There were so many things I wished I'd have told you."

"And?" Sherlock prompted.

"And then I was thinking about why I'd never said them. And if those reasons still apply. How you would have reacted if I'd told you, how you'd react now. The risk. I was thinking about possibilities, and what I really want."

Sherlock's heart started to pound. He suddenly felt as if he'd run a great distance. But this wasn't from exertion, it wasn't his brain releasing chemicals for his fight or flight response. It wasn't even wholly nerves. This was something else. Something entirely new. Hope. Wild, unabashed hope. That anticipation, the promise of something delightful. He swallowed hard, his mind in a million different places all at once. He was taking in the air temperature to see if it really had gotten warmer in the room or if he was just imagining it. He was studying John's pupils for reaction, trying to check his own reactions as well. He was playing through all the possibilities of their conversation's end in his mind. The good and the bad. He was cataloguing each new sensation as it swirled into his chest, the way his nerves tingled and came alive. Was this what he'd been missing his whole life?

"What did you regret not telling me?" His words carried a hint of wild desperation in them that he couldn't quite contain. His bright blue eyes bored into John's green ones, searching. "What do you want?"

"I should have told you..." John felt himself being mesmerized by Sherlock. Caught in his web, under his spell. Entranced. "I should have told you that...that I..."

"That you what?" That smoky voice stole through John's veins like quicksilver, drawing him out, exposing his soul to Sherlock.

"That I love you." The words were rough, almost agonized, spoken low and soft. Unable to bear the thought that he might have misunderstood, Sherlock shook his head.

"I love you too, John, you know that."

"No, Sherlock. I _love you_. More than anything. More than anyone. Not just like a friend."

"I...you..." Usually so articulate, Sherlock was suddenly at a loss for words.

"And I want- I want whatever you can give me. Any of it, all of it. Everything." John found the words were pouring out, now that he'd started he couldn't stop the deluge. Sherlock heard the words, processed them with that lightning fast mind of is, but still they couldn't sink in.

"You mean...romantic love?" He kept his eyes trained on John's face, searching for any signs of what he was thinking, feeling.

John sighed, his heart laid out between them. "Yes. Romantic love. I don't know what that means for us, and I don't know why- no that's not true, I do know why, its everything, your mind your heart your wit your honesty-"

"I thought you weren't gay." A small smiled played at the corner of Sherlock's lips as the truth of what John was saying started to sink in for him. Unbridled joy spread in his chest. He couldn't help but razzle the wonderful man before him. John screwed his mouth up and grimaced.

"I'm not. Its just-"

"But you _are_ attracted to me?"

"Well yes, but just you!"

"You're no longer attracted to women?"

"No! I mean, yes- wait, no. That's not what I mean. Yes, I still think women are..." he trailed off as he caught sight of the smile on Sherlock's face. "You bloody wanker. You're having me on, aren't you?"

Sherlock chuckled. "It was quite amusing to see you blunder through that," he admitted. John scowled at him.

"This is hardly a laughing matter, Sherlock. Here I am pouring my heart out to you and you're having a laugh." He looked as if he might stick his tongue out at Sherlock any moment. Still, the smile didn't leave Sherlock's face.

"Can I claim temporary insanity brought on by wild, reckless joy?"

"No you most certainly can not- wait, what?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and his face grew serious again. "You know, John, that sentiment and I are virtual strangers. That I've always seen it as a foolish weakness to fall prey to the fairytale of love. As such, I'm on uncharted ground here. And that...makes me uncomfortable. I dislike not knowing what I'm doing, the reactions it will cause in both myself and others. The uncertainty of it, quite frankly, frightens me. I despise that. And yet, for quite some time now, I have been at the mercy of my pesky _feelings_ and I have stopped trying to fight it. You fascinate me, delight me, excite me, _undo_ me. I've never doubted it when people say I've no heart. Because I gave mine away long ago- to you."

"You...you're not still having me on, right?" John looked shell shocked. Sherlock only smiled a little grimly.

"No. I'm quite serious. Unsettelingly so."

"So. You love me. Romantically." Sherlock nodded. "And I love you. Romantically."

"So it would seem."

"And neither of us has ever said anything to the other about it."

"Obviously."

"Jesus Mary and Joseph we are bloody fools!" John sat back in his chair and slapped his hand to his forehead.

"All this time, all these years, wondering, afraid, then the regret of never speaking up, never knowing what might have been..." He shook his head. "How long?" Sherlock needed no clarification. He knew what John was asking.

"I don't know precisely. I know that the attraction came after the emotion. I think its possible that I'm just wired that way. Not that you're lacking in any way physically," he added quickly. John only smiled. "But sometime along the way, after I'd realized that you were truly my friend, my best friend, the one person in the world that I trusted above all others, respected above all others, and, I was most loathe to admit this, _needed_ above all others, it became alarmingly clear that what I felt for you was more than simple friendship. And out of that grew the possibility of...more."

"Why didn't you ever tell me? You could see that I was attracted to you long before I bloody well could. You knew, right away."

"I told you, John. You're my blind spot. I could see it then, because I hadn't yet realized my feelings were the same. But once I had, I could no longer trust my instincts about you. I've told you time and again how foolish sentiment is. It made me unable to use my senses properly. You seemed happy enough to date a string of women, and you never brought the subject up again. Any time I thought that I could possibly trust my observations that you would reciprocate, your attitude would suddenly become vastly different. And you so adamantly shouted to the world that you weren't gay." Sherlock lifted his hands in frustration. "But when it comes right down to it, I would have been happy never to act upon it. Just to have you in my life could have been enough for me. I've never experienced true lust, so the loss of that facet of a relationship wasn't a great one for me."

John sat silent for several moments. He could hardly believe the selflessness of the man before him. Sherlock had been content to leave off ever experiencing physical love, just so that John could continue to serial date? Sherlock would have been content to never know the touch of the man he loved, never share intimacy with him. The thought shook John to his very core.

"Sherlock." He tried to say more, but the words stuck in his throat. Suddenly, he was only too aware that Sherlock was still recovering from unspeakable trauma. Yet here they sat, discussing sex and love as if nothing had happened. He wanted to reach out to his friend, wanted to touch him, hold him, kiss those intriguing lips while getting lost in those intense blue eyes. But could Sherlock really be ready for that? Taking a deep breath for fortitude, John slid out of his chair and knelt on the floor between Sherlock's knees. Ever so slowly, he lifted one hand and cupped Sherlock's cheek. His thumb brushed over those sharp cheekbones, then feathered over his lips. Then, one millimetre at a time, he brought his lips up to Sherlock's.

Though he knew logically that it was impossible, Sherlock suddenly felt as if the earth had stopped spinning. His carefully ordered life spun out of control as John brushed his lips over Sherlock's own in the lightest of touches. Instantly, his heart hammered, his breath caught, there were a thousand other physical reactions he could have catalogued but his mind had suddenly gone curiously blank. There was only John, only those firm warm lips against his, only that soft breath against his face, only the incomprehensible, immeasurable love between them.

This. This was what Sherlock had always been missing. Parts of himself that he'd long ignored roared to life. His blood thrummed through his body, roaring in his ears, deafening him to all but his heartbeat and John's. Both his hands snaked out of their own accord and gripped John's shoulders, hauling him closer.

At John's breathless moan, Sherlock instantly released him.

Shocked, shaking with reaction, Sherlock pressed a hand to his lips and fought to find his composure. He cleared his throat, aware that there was colour rising in his cheeks.

"I, I apologize. I don't know what came over me just then." He stood abruptly and paced in John's well worn spot on the carpet. "Clearly I am unprepared to properly handle these new sensations."

"Don't do that," John said, sitting back on his heels.

"Do what?" Sherlock turned to him sharply.

"Hide behind that cool, calculating mask. I understand if it frightens you. Frankly it scares the wits out of me as well. But don't hide from it. Don't hide from me."

"You're the one person in the world I don't have to hide from," Sherlock mused. "And yet right now you're the one person in the world I wish to hide from the most." He paced away, then back. "I simply need time. To process all this new data. I need to get it right in my head."

"This isn't an equation you can work out, Sherlock, even with that amazing brain of yours." John rose from the floor and faced Sherlock head on. "Tell me honestly, when we kissed, what did you feel?"

"Feelings," Sherlock spat. "Useless, foolish-"

"I spent years being a coward," John interrupted him darkly. "Hiding from you, from myself, from us. You're too good of a man to fall prey to that same cowardice. I won't let you."

"I'm not-" Sherlock's angry words fell dead on his tongue. He _was._ He was hiding from the unknown. Afraid of such an elementary thing as emotion. He was as good a coward as John said. But he could face this. He stopped pacing and studied John's face. "Alright, I was." He felt a small reciprocal smile tug his lips at John's quick grin. "I detest that this is such a foreign concept to me. A despise my fear of it. Fear is a useless thing, meant to be easily conquered and discarded."

"So lets shed some light onto the subject, dispel that fear. We can move past it."

"How can you be so sure?" Sherlock was honestly curious, John could see it on his face.

"Something your brother said to me, actually."

"Mycroft." Sherlock's lip curled.

"Yeah. He said that between the two of us, we could work anything out. Your brain and my heart. Together, anything is possible."

"And you...believe him?"

"Yes. I do."

_**Yayayayay! Aren't they so cute? I just love them together. Don't worry, there's more! And of course...there's going to be some serious Johnlock pieces coming up. Stick with me people! I think in the next chapter, an old friend of theirs is going to make a visit ; )**_

_**Thanks for reading, and please please pretty please with Benedict Cumberbatch on top will you leave me a review and let me know what you think?**_


	9. Chapter 9

_**May I just say how unbelievably awesome it is that you guys are liking the story? I absolutely adore getting reviews -they keep me going!- and you all have been so wonderful! Thank you thank you thank you to each and every one of you who has taken the time to let me know what you think! It means the world to me : )**_

_**And now, without further ado, chapter 9, in which we discover Sherlock's unexpected talent...**_

After they continued to search each other's eyes for long moments, John finally broke the silence. There was one topic they'd yet to breach, and he felt the sooner they discussed it the better.

"Sherlock, there is something that concerns me."

"Oh?"

"We've talked about physical intimacy, you've let me kiss you and unless I'm totally daft you enjoyed it, but I think we need to figure out just how much your..." he swallowed and though his gut tightened, forced himself to say it, "your rape will affect us."

Sherlock flinched at the word. He'd so carefully shied away from using it. It burned him that it was utterly illogical for the word to affect him so, but he couldn't deny it. "What effects," he asked tightly, "do you think it will have?"

"I don't know. I've treated victims before, and the repercussions are always different. Each person is different."

"I'm aware of that," Sherlock said quickly.

"Well, then we just need to tread carefully until we know exactly what we're dealing with."

"I know exactly what I'm dealing with," he said through gritted teeth. "I am aware of every twitch not of my own accord. Every unfounded shiver of fear. Every pointless flashback. I have accepted them and dismissed them."

"Is it really that easy for you?"

"Easy?" Sherlock lifted a brow. "No, John, its not easy. Nothing about it is easy. But I refuse to let it contaminate my life. You're the first person I've ever been-" he stopped, for the first time almost embarrassed by his limited experience. "Attracted to," he finally finished.

"So you've never..."

"Don't be daft, of course I have. My most recent experience notwithstanding-"

"That doesn't even begin to count," John growled. Sherlock couldn't help the tug on his heart at the doctor's instant rise to the defensive.

"Notwithstanding," he continued on, "I of course made a study of it in my days at uni. I like to keep myself informed on all things that might be pertinent to my life. And sexual behaviour in human beings continues to be at the very forefront of basic human nature. I preformed several experiments, studying the effects and reactions involved in sexual activity."

"It sounds...clinical."

"That it was," Sherlock admitted. "Of my four experiences, two were with women and two were with men. I was able to observe, quite plainly, my partners' reactions to physical stimuli. I have experienced sex in nearly all its forms, auditory, oral, penetrative, and always arrived at the same conclusions."

"What conclu- wait. Did you just say auditory?" John gaped at Sherlock. In response, Sherlock only rose his brows. "As in...phone sex? You? You had it off with someone on the phone?"

"I created sexual desire through auditory stimulation, yes. Sex is quite predictable and it was easy to discover what to say and how to say it. Additionally, I've been told once or twice before that I have a rather...sensual voice."

John could only laugh. "You, phone sex..." he chuckled till he thought tears might fall from his eyes.

"I fail to see what's so funny," Sherlock said, perturbed.

"Its just, you're always so formal. Always proper. I simply cannot imagine Sherlock Holmes talking dirty to some bird over the phone."

"Can't you?" Suddenly, Sherlock's voice had gone deep and soft. "Is it so hard to believe, John," he purred, "that I could awaken desire, longing, _lust_, using only my voice?" John was paralyzed, frozen to the spot as Sherlock spoke to him in that somehow wicked tone. "You can't imagine how," he took a deep breath and let it out slowly, sensually, "I could talk of dark, sexual things and make someone throb in reaction?" His voice went impossibly deeper, like rough velvet. "Talk of things like limbs entwined, slick with sweat, low moans brought on by pure pleasure, bodies straining together, _fucking_..." He trailed off. John shivered. The way he'd spoken, the sound of those words on Sherlock's tongue, the way he'd caressed that last obscenity, it was more sensual than anything had a right to be. John realized that he was painfully hard. Aching.

"Holy mother of Christ," he breathed.

"Believe me now?" Sherlock asked, his voice returned to its normal smooth baritone. Dumbly, John shook his head. "Back to the original point I was making, I have experience in the sex act, certainly. But I lack any personal knowledge of the mindless desire you've just so aptly demonstrated." He smirked as John cleared his throat and tried to bring his body to heel.

"Uh, so, you mean that you've never been turned on before?"

"I've experienced the physical sensation of arousal, but it was always a simple inconvenience that never led anywhere productive."

"And by productive, you mean..."

Sherlock shrugged. "It never did anything for me."

"Wait, you've never gotten off?!"

"John." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I did go through puberty. Hormones occur, even in a highly motivated mind like mine. My body has released before, but it was simply never at my own will and never brought anything other than minor relief."

"So you have clinical experience with sex, but no concept of intimacy or arousal?"

"Oh, I'd say I got a good concept of both those just a few moments ago."

"Before that, though?"

"Before that, no. Look, John..." Sherlock ran his hand through his hair. It was unbelievably frustrating that he didn't know how to properly explain it all. His world had always been so clear cut before. Now suddenly, everything was in hazy shades of grey. "There are things, things I never thought I'd get the chance to experience in my lifetime. Things I'd convinced myself I didn't want. And until recently, I truly believed I didn't need them. Until _you_. Love, intimacy, desire and affection. No one has ever loved me before. I just assumed that...someone like me...simply had to do without it. I'm calculating and far more blunt than anyone else I know, I'm stubborn and difficult and _I see_ all those flaws, John. I see them all crystal clear. I can look at a stranger and deduce their whole life, but I can look at myself too. I see every single thing about myself that makes me unlovable." When John started to interrupt, Sherlock stopped him with a raised hand. "But you, John. You do love me. Despite it all, or hell, maybe because of it. And heaven help you, I love you too. I'll be terrible at it, I know. There will be times- more than there already are!- that you'll want to strangle me, or bash my head in with my violin. I know that. I can promise that. But I can also promise that I will _try._ For you, I will try to understand. Try to live up to your view of me. I gave up trying to change who I am to please others a long time ago. But with you, I want to become a man who deserves you. I'll probably spend the rest of my life trying if you'll let me."

"Sherlock..." John felt the warmth of Sherlock's words creep round his heart and squeeze tightly.

"That includes sex. You've awakened something within me. Something I'd never dared to dream for. I knew that there was attraction, yes, but somewhere within me there was always the ridiculous hope that I'd one day find someone who could fan the spark of attraction to the flame of desire. Not some clinical experiment that was more about knowledge than feeling. True lust. Hot and bright and burning with love. When..." he faltered, eyes going dark with anger and pain. "When those men in the cave...I thought I could handle it, John. I thought I knew all the risks going in. I'd accounted for it as a form of torture. But somehow, I wasn't prepared. Nothing could have prepared me. Because suddenly it didn't feel like simple torture. It felt like they'd stolen something from me. It was the first time I'd ever experienced anything to do with sex that had emotion behind it. Except instead of love, it was hate. Somehow, knowing that those men didn't just want me, they wanted to _hurt_ me, break me, and they would use sex to do it, made it so much worse. I don't know that I'll ever truly get back what was taken. Even knowing that, I'd go through it all again to come home to you. And there's one other thing I know for certain. If there is ever anyone who stands a chance at helping me get it back...its you."

Sherlock reached one hand out and stroked it slowly down John's cheek. There were tears in the doctor's eyes, not falling but shimmering there on the surface. Normally, Sherlock saw such signs of emotion as weakness. But now, he saw them for what they really were: badges of strength and courage. John willingly bared his heart to Sherlock. It was the most brave, the most selfless thing you could do for another.

"Sherlock." John spoke slowly and cautiously.

"Mmh?"

"Kiss me."

"What?"

"You heard me. Kiss me. Right now. Right here. I've told you, now let me show you how I feel. Let me show you what we can have together. Let me share with you, what I can give you, what you can give to me."

Sherlock met his eyes and studied them. The sincerity in them steadied him. Before, John had been the one to make the move. Now, he was asking Sherlock to do it. Unwilling to give into cowardice, Sherlock cupped John's jaw and tipped it up. Then he bent down until their lips were only a hairs breadth apart. He waited, as if giving John time to change his mind. John stayed perfectly still, his eyes locked on Sherlock's. Finally, Sherlock closed the last distance between them. Their lips met. There was heat, spark, slowly kindling-burning-_roaring_ into flame. They were sealed together, nothing between them but love and desire. Sherlock's body started to take over, his mind stepping back as he was racked with urges. Unbidden, his arms twined around John's neck and clung tight. From somewhere distantly he heard a low moan, breathy and urgent. He realized with shock that it had been his own. Tension coiled tight in his belly. Sensations he'd long forgotten were resurrected. He found himself hard, achingly so, throbbing in that delicious anticipation.

Their lips moved against each others, tongues tentatively reaching out to brush together. As the kiss deepened, so did Sherlock's desire. He nearly stumbled back when he found John's back was against the wall, shocked to realize he'd pushed them there. Pinned John's body between the wall and Sherlock's tense form. He wanted to plunder, to take, to demand. But there was another part of him as well. A part he hadn't even been aware of. The part of him that had slipped his hand behind John's head before pushing him against the wall to prevent him from being hurt. The part that was careful not to press to firmly against John's erection lest he cause his friend any pain. The part that tamped down the needful, writhing beast inside of him snarling for completion.

Somehow, it was exactly like John had said. Sharing. Give and take in equal measure.

John groaned low in his throat and Sherlock's mind kicked into overdrive. He was no longer completely mindless, nor was he lost in cold logic. Somewhere between, he rested and rose. He became aware of each small signal John gave indicating pleasure. Those intense powers of deduction were focused solely on John. Every atom of his mind concentrating on the tiny almost imperceptible signals the doctor gave off. Sherlock saw them all, felt them, used them. He learned from each moan, each hitched breath, each clenched muscle. Soon he'd mastered the art of seducing John Watson. It was a slow, sweet seduction. Long nimble fingers explored John's face, his neck, his shoulders. Each centimetre down pushed them both closer to oblivion.

For Sherlock, it seemed as though giving John pleasure somehow intensified his own. Was this how it was for everyone? Every sexual encounter that involved emotion and sentiment? Suddenly those things didn't seem so foolish any longer. They seemed absolutely vital. How had he ever lived without them? And he wanted...he wanted more. He wanted to run his hands over every inch of John's skin, feel the blood thrum along his veins as they were pressed closer together. He wanted fulfillment. Not just for himself, but for John as well. He wanted to be able to use his ability to learn and to deduce to bring pleasure to John, to thank him for the world of sensation he'd created for Sherlock. His body didn't just crave pleasure, it craved what would please John as well.

It became painfully apparent to him that he had no idea which role John would want in a sexual encounter between them. He was certain he could ascertain it with some careful study and trial, but the idea of getting it wrong, that slim possibility, made him nervous. He never wanted to push John. Never wanted to make a wrong move with him. So he lifted his head to ask. Before any words came, Sherlock heard the footsteps. His sensitive ears picked up the footfalls out on the street, coming towards them. It was a rhythm he knew and had become familiar with. Resigned, he drew back further.

"Sherlock, what-"

"We are about to have company, John."

Before John could ask who, they both heard the insistent pounding on the door, Mrs Hudson rushing to answer it, then quick steps up the stairs. Their door was thrown open less than a moment later.

"Is it true?" Lestrade's eyes came to rest on Sherlock. He was out of breath, face flushed. Sherlock could tell right away that he'd run the whole way over. There was disbelief there, shock, and much to Sherlock's surprise, delight. "My god, Sherlock!" He launched himself at the detective, wrapping brawny arms around his ribs and squeezing.

Instantly, that cold trickle of fear went down Sherlock's spine, along with a shot of pain at his bruised ribs being nearly crushed beneath friendly affection. John noticed immediately the way Sherlock's face went pale, the way his demeanour changed. He started to step toward them, but Sherlock shook his head slightly. He didn't have the comfort with Lestrade that he did with John, but he knew the man had no desire to harm Sherlock. He wouldn't let Lestrade's moment of happy reunion be ruined by Sherlock's demons. If anything, it was a good place to start. Readjusting himself to human contact in a safe manner.

And aside from all the logical reasons, Sherlock couldn't help the coil of pleasure that hit him at the realization of how much Lestrade cared. He'd never figured he had friends. Yes, Lestrade had put up with him when he needed to, but it had never occurred to him that the DI would miss him while he was gone. He was flattered, a little flustered, and willing to put up with the pain of his ribs being squeezed for it.

Finally, Lestrade released Sherlock and stood back. "I can't believe its really you. I came as soon as I got the call. Couldn't believe it until I saw you with my own eyes."

"Yes, inspector, I can see that." Sherlock gave him a small but warm smile.

"Smarmy as ever, I see," he laughed.

"You didn't honestly expect that to ever change, did you Lestrade?"

"No, I guess I didn't. You wouldn't be you without some smart remark to make."

"True enough," Sherlock agreed. John cleared his throat, reminding them that he was still in the room. Lestrade turned to him and smacked him upside the head.

"Watson, you wanker. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Just found out recently myself." He rubbed the side of his head and grinned at Lestrade ruefully.

"A likely story," Lestrade said with obvious disbelief.

"Oh, he's telling the truth, I assure you. He was quite unaware of my status as one among the living."

"I don't suppose you're gonna tell us exactly what happened, and why you let us all believe you'd been dead two years?"

"All in good time, Inspector." He clasped his hands together behind his back, already imagining the look on some of his acquaintances faces when they found out. "I don't suppose you'll let me do the honour of telling Donovan and Anderson of my return personally?"

Lestrade laughed. "Oh, I'll have no problem with that, long as you plan to do it soon. I don't expect any morbid displays, mind you, but I can let you have your fun."

_**What could be next for our dynamic duo? Tune in next week to find out! In the mean time, would you please leave me a review and let me know what you thought about the chapter? Thanks in advance!**_


	10. Chapter 10

_**Have I mentioned how wonderful you all are? Thank you so much for all the kind words and lovely reviews! You all deserve a chocolate sunday served in a Benedict Cumberbatch bowl ; )**_

_**And here it is, the long awaited chapter in which Sherlock uses the phrase "spank the monkey" and we discover his unexpected talent...**_

_**Happy Reading!**_

_**ps. Also wanted to mention that "ah" is used two different ways in this story. John usually says it as ahhh, like an American would say "um" as a filler sound. When Sherlock uses it, it is usually as an interjection, like Ah! As if discovering something. Hopefully you all know what I mean!**_

Lestrade left half an hour later, after eliciting promises from both John and Sherlock that they would call him soon. Sherlock, eager to return to normality, had urged the DI to call him first if any interesting cases came up. With a laugh, Lestrade agreed, then left.

Once he'd gone, Sherlock and John resumed their seats by the fire.

"Are you ever going to tell me about what all went on in the years you were gone?"

Sherlock looked over at John raised his brows in surprise. "Do you really want to know, John?"

"I take it with that answer, there was a lot of bloodshed."

"Some," Sherlock agreed casually. "As much as was necessary. I did try to find alternative routes when possible, but in many cases it simply wasn't an option."

"Where did you live? Who did you talk to?"

"I lived wherever my shoes landed. I went round the world three times when all was said and done. I don't believe I ever stayed in the same place twice. As for talking, there really wasn't much time for that. I wanted to come home, John. I wasn't willing to dally around trying to play nice with anyone. I had a job to do, and then I could come back to you. I had no interest in anything else."

"I could tell you had no interest in eating while you were away. You're still practically skin and bones, even after two weeks on IV nutrition as well as hearty meals."

"You know I forget to eat sometimes when I'm working. Food dulls the mind. I needed to stay sharp."

"I'll say. Your bones look sharp enough against your skin to cut glass."

"Unhappy with my physical appearance?"

John chuckled and shook his head. "You know bloody well that you're still attractive, even if I do think you need a bit more meat on your bones."

"A compliment? I'm flattered, Dr Watson."

"Flattered my arse," John muttered. Sherlock flashed him a grin.

"Ah, speaking of your arse," Sherlock started, pressing his fingertips together and resting them against his lips. John looked over at him, a little surprised at the segway. "I wanted to discuss something before Lestrade showed up. I fear the subject matter might be one you are ill at ease talking about, but I'm hoping that for my sake- our sake- you'll push through."

"Alright," John said cautiously.

"I'm sure you can imagine the multitude of sexual variety available in an interlude with two males."

"Oh, uh, yeah sure. I guess there's lots of combinations. Tab A slot B, all that." He reddened, and Sherlock couldn't help but smirk. Of them, John was certainly the more experienced, but Sherlock had the advantage of lacking inhibitions about sexual identity.

"Yes, something like that. What I'm curious about is which of them, or which combination of them, you would be comfortable with." Sherlock still had his palms together lightly, looking for all the world as if he'd just asked the time instead of what kind of gay sex his flatmate preferred.

"Sherlock...I, uh, I don't know. I've never, well, you know. Not with a man. I haven't the foggiest what to do in...that situation."

"Alright then, lets start with simple process of elimination. I find it to be the most effective route in almost every case. Easing our way into more and more involved acts. Kissing I am already aware you are comfortable with. What about auditory stimulation?"

"You t-talking to me more?"

"Or vice-versa," Sherlock drawled.

"Well I'm fairly certain that I'd be absolute rubbish at it, but I certainly wouldn't mind if you did that thing with your voice again..."

"Rubbish at it? Whyever would you think that? I assume you've used that form of foreplay with your female partners."

"Yes, but it's not the same-"

"Why not?"

For a moment, John could only stare, baffled. "Why not? What do you mean why not? Because you're a man, and I'm a man, and...well...its just not the same!"

Sherlock blinked at him, then shrugged his shoulders in dismissal. "Maybe reciprocation on that front can be left to explore at a later time when you're more comfortable with your sexuality."

"I'm perfectly comfortable-"

"Next, what about manual stimulation?"

"Manual...what?" John couldn't believe the direction this conversation had taken.

"Manual stimulation, John. I suppose you'd call it a hand shandy?"

"Jesus bloody Christ, Sherlock!" If there'd been tea in John's mouth it would have been spewed all over Sherlock's intense face. Shaking his head in disappointment, Sherlock stood.

"I take these reactions to mean that you're not ready for this conversation. Maybe we should wait to continue it until you're more open to the subject. Kindly let me know when and if that time comes."

"Sherlock, wait!"

"John, its fine. I had barely dared to hope I could have a sexual relationship with anyone, ever. I'd put the possibility of that person being you out completely. I can go back to that. Knowing how you feel about me is enough." His voice softened. "Really."

"No, wait! Its not that I don't want- I just need to...I don't know, wrap my head around it. Thinking about those things, with you, that's not what puts me off. I _want_ you. In every sense of the word. But I've never had to spell it all out like this before. I need to ask for a little patience here."

"Patience," Sherlock echoed.

"Yes." John took hold of Sherlock's hand and tugged him gently back to his chair. "Can you give me that?"

"Of course." His hands came up, fingertips together, to his mouth once more. He stared at the flames in the fire for a long while. "Do you mean that we need to wait and have this conversation at a later date, or that you merely need me to allow you to adjust to the subject matter as I ask the questions? Because I'm unwilling to go any further than we already have physically without discussing this first."

"We can have it now, but just...don't be surprised if I'm not great at giving answers. Its not you. I couldn't have this conversation at all with anyone else but you. It just takes some getting used to."

"Shall I continue then?"

"Yes. Just please never say 'hand shandy' ever again." When John looked over, Sherlock was biting his lip to hold back his mirth. John couldn't help the laugh that rose up within him. He let it out, relishing the break in the tension.

"If that one's out, there are a plethora of other vividly colourful phrases for that particular action. Hand to gland combat, five knuckle shuffle, tug job, spank the monkey-" Sherlock was cut off as John's laughter grew so intense that he couldn't breathe.

"Ah, no!" He gasped, trying to fan air toward his face while wiping away tears of laughter. "No! I never want to hear anything with the word monkey in it referring to bedroom activities in any way!"

"Too bad," Sherlock smirked. "I rather liked the term. Rather...ambitious I'd say." They cracked up together, each with the same ridiculous picture in their heads. "Monkeys aside," Sherlock chuckled then cleared his throat, trying to adopt a more serious disposition once more, "I still need an answer to how you feel about that."

John caught his breath and forced himself to seriously consider what Sherlock was asking. He found that the idea wasn't an unpleasant one in the slightest. It called to mind flashes of feeling and warm possibility. "I think that one's a go. I have no objections to it."

"Good then. Now onto oral stimulation. Your thoughts?"

"Well..." John swallowed hard and couldn't help the way his gaze was drawn to Sherlock's trousers. The problem wasn't in the act itself so much as the damned talking about it.

"Tell me," Sherlock interrupted the thought. "Tell me what you're thinking right in this moment. I can see your wheels turning but I can't read you."

"I- I know for sure that I'm not opposed to receiving it." The thought of those intriguing lips wrapped around his cock had him shifting in his seat. "Contrary to what this is making it sound like, I'm not a selfish lover. I'm not necessarily against giving...but you've got to understand that I've never done that before. Ever. I can always try what I know I like, but I can't promise-"

"I doubt your skill will be an issue, John."

"Its an issue to me," John said insistently. "I have always taken great pride in being able to satisfy my lovers. Going into this blind, with you, I feel as if I'm going to be joining a race after the rest of the crowd has already gone half way. I don't want to fumble around, not give you what you deserve."

"From the little I've experienced of our physical interactions already, I honestly do not think that will be a problem. You entice me. Being with you at all will be plenty. Any additional gratification gained will simply be the pièce de résistance."

"Sherlock, its important to me that I be able to...well...pleasure you." His cheeks turned red once more and Sherlock felt his heart clench.

"You will. You already have. But in the interest of posterity, we will take all the time necessary to learn each other."

"I- well ok then. That sounds about right."

"Now we are down to penetrative sex. I feel I must interject here that in terms of receiving, it will be some time before-"

"God Sherlock, I wouldn't ask you to- to- go that far. I can only imagine what that would bring up for you."

"Bring up?" Sherlock's brows knit. "Oh you mean psychologically? That is something I will deal with when and if it occurs. My issue, not yours. What I meant was-"

"Your issue? What the bloody hell do you mean by that?"

"John it isn't a real physical obstacle that needs overcome. The problem, should one arise, would be totally in my head. Therefore it is only logical that I be the one to handle it. Not your problem."

"Jesus. Tell me, how is it possible that someone with your massive intellect can be such an idiot? Of course its my bloody problem! I've got no intention of fucking you with you off in your sodding mind palace dealing with issues from being raped!" John brought his fist down hard on the coffee table, and the tea cups jumped. Sherlock just stared at him, baffled by the violent reaction from the usually moderate doctor.

"John-"

"No. No, you listen to me. I'd be a monster if I did that to you. I fucking love you, Sherlock Holmes. Do you hear me? _I love you_. That means that we're in this together. Better or worse. Your issues are my issues. And if you think for one second that I'd be able to have at you while you sorted through your trauma, you don't know me. You don't know me at all."

"John...I apologize. I didn't mean to upset you so violently." He studied the doctor carefully, seeing the lines of anger on his face. Anger not directed at Sherlock, but on his behalf. "I can understand that it would diminish your pleasure to think about me dealing with other issues while we were together intimately."

"No, Sherlock. You still don't get it. You just don't _get it_. If it was me, if I'd been the one in that cave, and I was afraid of sex because of it, even if I told you just to go ahead and have at me, do you think you could?"

"I'd never hurt you," Sherlock said adamantly.

"I didn't say physical pain of any kind. Fear, even knowing it was unfounded. Emotional turmoil. Those are what I'm talking about. If you doing that to me brought back flashes of what had happened. Could you go ahead, even if I told you to?"

"_I would never hurt you_," Sherlock repeated through clenched teeth. "That means emotional pain as well as physical."

"Then why do you expect me to be able to cause you emotional pain?"

"I'm not like that."

"That's a lie and we both know it. You do feel, Sherlock. You're logical and rational and you're above so many of the 'mundane' things, but I know you feel. I know you experience mental pain over what was done to you, and I know you feel a wide range of emotion when it comes to me. There will be fear and memories and a whole shitload of things to work through if we ever get to that point. But we are going to work through it together. And we aren't going to do that until I'm damn sure you're totally ready for it. When we're together, its just you and me, Sherlock. No ghosts, no fears."

"Ok," Sherlock said quietly, surprising them both.

"Just ok?" John had expected more protest, more fight.

"Just ok," Sherlock confirmed. "You're right. Its not fair to either of us if its not just you and me when we come together. And I can see, putting myself in your shoes so to speak, how the idea of there being any kind of pain involved, even just emotional, would make the whole experience distasteful." His eyes hardened and the coldest look John had ever seen crossed his face. "I'll kill anyone who hurts you," he whispered.

If the words had been yelled in anger, hissed in rage, they couldn't have been nearly as terrifying. There was no heat in that statement. It was all ice. A cold, deadly promise. John could see that Sherlock was imagining what had happened to him happening to John. And he could see that Sherlock meant what he said with every fiber of his being. John didn't doubt for a moment that Sherlock was capable of ruthlessly striking down anyone who harmed the one man he cared for. It was at once both comforting and terrifying. But John could understand. He remembered first discovering the extent of Sherlock's injuries. And recalled with perfect clarity how much he'd wanted to go back and be the one who broke the bastard's neck.

"I believe you. And speaking from experience, I understand."

"I took that possibility away from you." Sherlock cocked his head to the side slightly. "I apologize for that."

"Apology accepted." John cracked a smile, realizing they were very calmly discussing murder for vengeance. Sherlock had just apologized for killing a man and depriving John the honour of doing it himself. It would have been comically absurd if it wasn't so heartbreaking. Their eyes met and held for the hundredth time since they'd been reunited. After a while, Sherlock cleared his throat and went on.

"Anyway, that wasn't what I was getting at to begin with. We do have a tenancy to veer off, don't we?" He shook his head and forced a smile. "The point I was trying to make was that, from a purely physical aspect, it will probably be another-" he broke off as he did the calculations in his head. "Yes, another seven point three days before I'm able to be on the receiving end without pain."

"Seven point three, eh?"

"Approximately."

"Well I think we'll cross that road when we get there, then."

"And in the mean time, your thoughts on being the reciprocal party?"

"I...I'm not sure. I've never really been in a position to have to think about it. Its not that I'm against it, per se. But I have absolutely no experience in that area. None. So I honestly can't tell you if its something I'll like."

"I figured we could address like and dislike in a more hands on setting. What I'm asking is willingness to try. Comfort with the idea. Desire."

John couldn't help his chuckle. "Well I can't say I've ever specifically desired that. But I've never desired another man but you. And with you...with you I want everything. I want _you_. There isn't anything I don't want to explore with you." He ran his hand over his face and shook his head. "I guess what I'm saying is that with the right, ah... _tools..._ I'm willing to try."

"The right tools being a condom and lubrication?"

"Yes," John chuckled again at Sherlock's forwardness. "That is what I meant. And on that subject, I think I ought to tell you that I'm in the clear health-wise. No STDs or anything."

"I never had a doubt doctor," Sherlock smirked. "And you've been privy to my test results, so you're aware that I also am 'in the clear,' as you put it." He frowned for a moment, thinking. "John, would you prefer to not use protection?" He cocked his head to the side curiously.

"We-well I mean, as a doctor its my job to promote safe sex every time."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but as we are both healthy and pose no risk to the other, condoms become a trifle...frivolous with two men. Certainly they can be a personal preference for hygiene, but its not as if either one of us runs the risk of unplanned pregnancy."

"Yes, Sherlock, I'm aware of that much." John rolled his eyes. "I wasn't trying to say that we shouldn't. As I said earlier, I don't have any experience in that department, so I have no idea what my personal preferences will be. But yes, despite the professional in me always being adamant about protection, in a committed, safe relationship condoms aren't strictly necessary. I think its safe to say that neither of us has any intentions of sleeping around, yeah?"

"I certainly have no desire to have any kind of sexual contact with any others."

"Well good. I'm a monogamous kind of bloke, so I don't think there will be any problems in that area then."

"How can you be sure you won't meet a woman you'd rather be spending your nights with?"

John did a double take at Sherlock, stunned at the question.

"Excuse me?"

"By your own admission, you're not gay. How can you be sure that you won't be unsatisfied in sex with me, and want to go back to women?"

"Are you saying you'd be ok with me having a dish on the side?!" The incredulity in John's voice made Sherlock smile in relief.

"Well I certainly wouldn't be in favor of it," he admitted. "But John..." His tone became serious once more. "By your own admission, you have no experience in this situation. You can't commit to a relationship you don't know will be physically compatible for you."

"Yes, Sherlock, I can." He reminded himself that all matters of the heart were relatively new to Sherlock. Because of that inexperience, he tried to keep the bite out of his voice. "I. Love. You. I've already said that. That means that I don't want anyone else."

"You had no problem going on dates with women whilst in love with me before," Sherlock said with one cocked brow. John sighed and reminded himself that he'd just gotten his flatmate back from the dead and he'd regret it if he strangled the man.

"And you saw how long those relationships lasted. Yes, I had the ability to sleep with other women after I knew I was in love with you. But I didn't think anything would ever come of you and I. And we had never talked about it. We never admitted our feelings and committed to each other." He paused for a moment, realizing that they hadn't yet defined their relationship. "That is what this is, isn't it? A real relationship, just you and me?"

"You know I have no desire to be with any others."

"Yeah, but what if sometime down the line you did find someone else you were attracted to?"

"While I find that highly improbable, if not impossible, I suppose the answer to your question would be that if we have made commitments to each other, I would of course honour those promises. I wouldn't betray your trust."

"Good. That's the same way I know that I won't find some woman down the line and pop into bed with her. I'm choosing to be with you. And before you say anything, I truly don't think compatibility will be a problem. We've already proven that the attraction is there. So you have to trust that I will be satisfied with you and only you."

Sherlock nodded once, accepting the promise. "I'm quite the talented lover, you know," he said casually.

"Is that so?" John chuckled.

"I'm not being humorous, John, I mean it. I've given the study of the art the same focus and dedication that I've given any of my other pursuits. Its been nearly ten years since I've used them, but I've no doubt that I'll be able to call them back up without problem."

"You seem awfully confident."

"You're a quick study, John Watson," Sherlock said slowly, inching their faces closer together.

"Am I?"

"Oh yes. I know you. Inside and out. I may be blind to your emotions and thoughts so much of the time, but I can read your reactions like a book. I can already tell what excites you," his voice dropped low, "what arouses you."

"You're doing that trick with your voice again," John said as he fought to catch the breath he'd suddenly lost.

"Trick? I hardly think so, doctor. Merely using the tools at my disposal." His voice continued to rumble across John's skin and raise chills in its wake. "And reiterating the fact that I will be able to pleasure you. Make you writhe, burn, scream."

John gave up trying to fight it. He let his senses be swept along in the delicious temptation of Sherlock's voice. "Prove it," he challenged.

"Happy too," Sherlock purred.

_**The smut is so close we can almost taste it! I hope you all enjoyed reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it (its my favorite so far!) and if you did, I'd be absolutely delighted if you'd take a moment and let me know!**_


	11. Chapter 11

**_Sorry sorry, I promise I didn't forget about you guys! But it's better a little late than never, yeah? Plus, this is chapter 11, in which there is SMUT! Does that make up for my tardiness?_**

**_Happy Reading ; )_**

Sherlock held out his hand to John. With hands trembling from anticipation, John took the help and let himself be pulled from the chair. Sherlock led them to John's bedroom. His original intention had been to make John feel more relaxed in his own space, but he realized suddenly that the supplies they would need were up in his own bedroom. Unwilling to leave John alone with his thoughts while he went to fetch them, Sherlock turned and took them to his room. John followed without comment.

Once they were in the bedroom, Sherlock pushed the door but didn't quite close it. His mind was already working at breakneck speed analysing every detail of the room. Things that could disquiet the doctor, things that were likely to increase nerves... Overall it wasn't a threatening space, but he knew that there were several changes he would want to make for next time.

John stood just inside the room, suddenly very unsure of himself. He knew he wanted Sherlock. He was aroused by and drawn to the man. Even still, this was uncharted waters for him. He didn't know quite how to react, what to say or do. With a woman, he would take the lead, kiss her, undress her, tease her. But with Sherlock, he didn't know if he _should_ take the lead. He turned back to his friend- his lover?- and Sherlock made the decision for him. He took John's head in both hands and kissed him, hard. Even through the haze of sudden lust, John was touched that Sherlock was careful enough not to let his cast knock against John's skull. Their lips met in what was quickly becoming a familiar melding of want and need and fire. It quickly spiralled out of control as they shared breath, urgency rising between them.

Sherlock pushed John's sweater off his shoulders, letting it fall carelessly to the floor. Then he slid his hands beneath the t shirt and a low moan of pleasure rippled through him at the feel of skin under his hands. John's skin. He was warm and smooth and Sherlock let his fingers dig into the other man's back, relishing the way John arched to him. They broke the kiss just long enough for Sherlock to pull John's shirt over his head. With his chest bare, John suddenly desperately wanted to feel Sherlock's own chest against his. He wanted to be closer to Sherlock, as close as two people could get. Breaking their kiss again, he gently lifted Sherlock's shirt and pulled it over his head. When it dropped to the floor, Sherlock's arms once more went around John. One hand fisted in his hair, the other trailed down his back to splay at the base of his spine.

John let his fingers gently explore Sherlock's back. He ran his hands slowly over each dip and peak, traced each muscle and every bone. If Sherlock's deep moan was any indication, the contact was driving the detective as wild as John himself felt. Suddenly, Sherlock's hand slid around to the front of John's trousers. John could have sworn he felt the other man's hand shake as he undid the placket. Once they were open, he pushed them slowly over John's hips and in a move that stole John's breath, palmed his backside in both hands and lifted him out of the pants. It was only once Sherlock set him back to the ground that the doctor in John realized he'd just been lifted bodily by a man with a broken hand.

"Your wrist, Sherlock," he murmured against Sherlock's lips.

"Damn my wrist," Sherlock breathed back. He jerkily pushed his pajama bottoms and boxers down, then slid John's down as well. Their kiss became more intense, more desperate as their bodies fully touched for the first time. It was electric, hot and firm and felt so right- so fucking right- that they be pressed together like that. The moment clung on. It continued endlessly. It was at once both too much and not enough.

Sherlock put his good hand on John's shoulder and pushed him gently down to sit on the edge of the bed. Then he carefully knelt, being ginger with his knee, and looked up into John's eyes. The doctor watched him, lids hooded, breath coming quick, chest rising and falling sharply. This was lust. This was true desire. This was what Sherlock had been missing his whole life. A wicked grin spread across his face and then he lowered his eyes again to John's groin.

In a split second he'd studied John, memorized him. He was perfectly formed there, just like the rest of the man. His excitement was evident in the constant throbbing pulse running along his shaft. Suddenly, Sherlock felt like some ancient pagan, kneeling and preparing to worship at the alter of a lustful god. It felt empowering. Dizzying. Satisfying. His own erection jerked in response as he licked his lips and lowered his mouth closer. John let out a low moan before Sherlock had even touched him. Once he did feel that quick tongue along his cock, he couldn't help crying out. His back arched, body thrumming with pleasure. It was quick, light licks, then long slow strokes, then he was entirely engulfed in warmth. Sherlock had been right. He could read John this way. He used that alarmingly steep learning curve to his advantage and made good on his word. In mere minutes, John was writhing on the bed, moaning and calling Sherlock's name. His hand went up to fist in dark curls, but he was careful not to press or jerk. He simply wanted to hold.

Sherlock carefully measured John's reaction, his arousal. It was a precarious precipice he walked, giving his lust free reign but maintaining enough of his mind to think through exactly what he wanted to do to John. When he knew John was close, he gave one long, slow lick up the length of John's cock and then climbed up his body. Instinctively, John scooted up the bed to make room for Sherlock. He laid himself across John's body, heat to heat, and kissed John so deeply that they both moaned.

As he did so, Sherlock cracked open one eye to locate his nightstand. He assumed John hadn't moved anything in his bedroom and was rewarded for that assumption when, in the far back corner of the drawer under papers and almost forgotten, his fingers found a condom and lubricant. Still kissing John deeply, he braced his weight on one elbow and reached his good hand between them. Despite being mostly ambidextrous, it was harder than he expected to roll the condom over his length. Suddenly, John's fingers were there. They smoothed the condom down over Sherlock, squeezed lightly, making him moan in reaction.

Sherlock's lips moved from John's mouth, down to his neck and ear, leaving behind soft, biting kisses. Teeth scraped lightly along sensitized skin, tongue tracing over pulse points. John felt as if he would go mad if he didn't get release soon. He never thought he'd think it, but if Sherlock didn't get inside of him soon, John would beg him for it. He just wanted _more._ With a soft click, Sherlock opened the small bottle in his hand and let the slickness coat his fingers. After liberally applying it to the head of his throbbing cock, he got more and moved his hand between John's legs. At the first touch, John's body arched, natural reflexes making him jerk away even while his back bowed and brought them closer. Sherlock bit lightly on John's shoulder and probed slowly. This time, John stayed still at the contact. His breath hissed between his teeth while Sherlock coated him.

Forgetting the pain in his knee, the ache of his back, Sherlock raised himself slightly and felt the head of his cock settle between John's legs. Still keeping most of his weight on his elbow, Sherlock nudged John's legs wider, giving him more access. He nuzzled John's collar bone, his throat, nipped and licked.

"Sherlock," John moaned.

"Yes John?" That low, seductive voice was back, adding to the already long list of things that were driving John wild.

"Get- get on with it," he panted.

"Do you want more then?" Sherlock moved to John's ear, kissing along its edge. "Do you want me inside of you? Connected to you as closely as two beings can be? Filling you, pleasuring you, stroking your cock while I thrust into you?"

"Jesus Sherlock. Yes. Now." John could barely stand it. It was the way the heat from Sherlock's body caressed his skin, the way his form pressed him into the bed, the way his voice whispered the words, that seductive timber pronouncing the ck in cock hard, making John throb, the way his teeth bit gently on John's ear and tugged.

Sherlock knew it was the perfect time. Between his body and his voice, he'd pushed John to the highest peak of arousal prior to sex itself. John was relaxed, ready, panting in anticipation. Sherlock captured John's lips with his own once more and ever so slowly pushed his hips forward. There was the slight tensing, then slow easing as Sherlock continued the gentle invasion. He'd learned, in his experiments, how to properly treat the human body. How to tease and tempt rather than force.

And in one swift flash, Sherlock was back in a dark, dank cave. He was bent over a hard wooden bench, and the man behind him was thrusting hard, purposely causing pain, tormenting and laughing...

"Sherlock?" John's eyes opened. Sherlock's body had gone rigid suddenly. He stayed perfectly still, eyes screwed tightly shut. "Sherlock, look at me."

From within the nightmare, Sherlock heard John's voice. He let his eyes open, let himself be propelled back to the present. His eyes met John's. Love, understanding, acceptance all passed between them in the space of a heartbeat. Then Sherlock buried his face against John's neck and pushed his hips forward another inch. John's back bowed once more, drawing Sherlock further into him. It was strange and indescribable, but somehow it was right and good and so bloody perfect. Sherlock's arms wrapped tightly around John's shoulders as they came closer together. When he was fully seated, the pressure inside John turned lightning fast into a deep, spine tingling sensation. It was almost too intense, too much. When Sherlock pulled back, the feeling died away. But as his hips bucked forward, it struck John again, hit him like a bolt of lightning. It wasn't the kind of pleasure he was used to receiving. This was more visceral, more intense, more everything.

"John," Sherlock whispered, thrusting in and out, revelling in the cries falling from John's lips. "My John."

The beauty of those words was caught in the sea of lust and desire and love surging through John. He had to force himself not to let his fingers dig into Sherlock's back, had to force himself not to pull the man's hips closer. It was too much, but it wasn't enough. He needed more, needed that final release. They needed to be bonded together through sweat and lust and love and release. As if he could read John's mind- and maybe in this he _could_- Sherlock snaked his good hand between them and wrapped long calloused fingers around John's cock. He squeezed tight, stroked, and that was all John had. The combination of the intense pleasure from within and the sharp sweet pleasure outside undid him. He screamed Sherlock's name, body tensing and hips bucking, hands fisted in the sheets so hard he was certain they would tear to shreds. Sherlock sped up the pace of his hips, hitting that sweet spot over and over as John came, drawing it out and forcing more pleasure through him.

As John's orgasm started to fade, Sherlock let himself be taken over by the beast inside him. The primal animal that demanded and snarled and took without quarter. He held John to him tightly, possessively, while his hips snapped harder and faster. The sensation was like nothing he'd ever felt before. The attraction, the love, somehow intensified every sensation. It churned and rose within him, higher and higher until there was nothing left but pleasure and love and John, John, John.

"God, John!" Sherlock lost himself in it, his body shuddering and quaking in the onslaught. He felt as if his entire being was poured into that one climax. He was giving himself, his all, to John. And nothing had ever felt more right.

Slowly, softly, the buzzing in Sherlock's ears began to abate and he came back to himself. He and John were both panting, hearts thundering and bodies slick with sweat. Carefully, he extracted himself from John and nuzzled the doctor's ear before rolling to the side.

"That...that was..." John seemed at a total loss for words. He could hardly think straight, let alone articulate his feelings.

"Wonderfully put, John," Sherlock grinned and tried to catch his breath.

"Oh sod off," John laughed.

"No thanks," Sherlock replied in all seriousness. "I think I'll just lay here for the next century or two. I think I'll need that long to recover from this." He quickly disposed of the condom in the bin beside the bed and once more collapsed beside John.

"I hear you." They lay quiet for a time, bodies just touching, easy companionship cloaking them.

"Was I as good as my word?" Sherlock finally asked. John turned his head to look and found Sherlock propped up on his elbow, head resting in his good hand. He was watching John intently, studying his face. The grin that turned John's lips up was all the answer he needed.

"You could say that." He rolled to his side and faced Sherlock. "I don't think we have to have any concerns about compatibility. If every time is even half as good as that, I'll be surprised if we ever leave this bed again."

"Just the bed? Where's your sense of adventure, John? There is an abundance of places in this flat that require our attention. Use your imagination."

"I don't think I have to," John laughed. "I'm sure you've already catalogued every surface that can be used for sex, and a few that probably outn't that we will anyways."

"Right you are," Sherlock replied with a grin. "Any things you think we need to discuss? Things you'd like me to do different, better for next time?"

"God, no," John said quickly. "If you improve on that I'll probably pass out next time and you'll never let me hear the end of it." Sherlock was about to agree when John's face became serious. "There was one thing I think we need to talk about though." Before he said anything, Sherlock already knew what he wanted to say.

"It was a momentary flash," he assured John. "A small fragment, utterly meaningless."

"But it got to you."

"Momentarily. Then it was gone. You," he leaned down and kissed John's forehead, "drove it away."

"If I hadn't been able to? Would you have stopped and taken a breather?"

"John, I don't-"

"Promise me, Sherlock." John set his chin stubbornly. Sherlock knew that look. That wasn't his chiding look or his lets discuss it look. That was the no prisoners no excuses my way or the highway look. It wasn't often that John got that look, but when he did, he got his way. Sherlock sighed.

"I promise, John. If there ever comes a time when I can't push them away, I'll stop. We can...talk about it."

"Thanks," John smiled up at him and Sherlock felt as if the sun had come out from behind a cloud.

_**squeeeeeeee! They finally did it! Please please please let me know what you thought!**_


	12. Chapter 12

_**Just a short little bit to see you through to tomorrow-I promise that chapter will be longer. But in the mean time, Chapter 12! In which Sherlock talks briefly of his childhood...**_

_**Happy Reading!  
**_

They lay together for a long while, letting exhaustion take them over and lull them to sleep. Idly, John wondered if he ought to get up and go to his own bed, but he couldn't be bothered to move. He considered himself lucky that he'd had enough energy to clean himself up, let alone actually get up from the bed. He was sure there was more to be said, things they needed to figure out between them, but somehow nothing seemed very important in those moments. He and Sherlock were side by side, relaxed, utterly sated, and finally, finally together.

The dream crept up on Sherlock much the way the others had. He couldn't control his sleeping mind, no matter how much he wished it otherwise. In repose, he wandered into dark waters. Sometimes he dreamt of his childhood. The absent father and harsh mother. The long nights wondering why he could be so smart and yet fail to make anyone in his life happy. Other times he saw the faces of the victims from cases he'd worked. In waking hours, he pushed them away. They were inconsequential to the game, only afterthoughts in his mind as he raced to put the puzzle pieces together. It wasn't until he slept that they crept up on him. Mothers, sons, sisters, fathers, good people, bad people, people with dreams and ambitions and desires. Something inside him wasn't total sociopath, because when he couldn't guard against it, they haunted him. Lives cut short. Stolen by vicious thieves in the night. It didn't make Sherlock heartless that he took such pleasure in tracking those thieves down, even if what they had taken could never be recovered.

This time, he was back in the caves. Not the first time his sleeping brain had taken him there. Nor, he was sure, would it be the last. He knew what was coming, allowed it to happen and accepted his helplessness in the face of it. Fighting it would do no good. Instead, he stood outside of his body and watched, expressionless, as he was whipped and beaten. When the first man came to take him down from the ceiling and bend him over the bench, he couldn't help but cringe. No matter how much he wanted it to, the scene didn't change. He was held down, stripped, invaded.

Suddenly, he could no longer observe from outside. He was back within himself, feeling every movement, every jolt of agony. He tried to shut it out, tried to block the pain. It tore through him over and over, inescapable, unending. The moan of pain was ripped from his throat before he could stop it. The pain was all encompassing. He tried not to think of the shame, the horror of it, the undeniable cruelty of the act. Another moan of pain erupted from deep within him.

"Sherlock." The voice floated to him as if from far away. He wanted to cling to it, find his way back following that sweet sound, but it was lost in the sea of agony. Pain was his only companion, shame his only friend. Garbled words tripped off his tongue, expressions of misery and distress. "Sherlock!" It came again, this time louder, more clearly.

"John..." He fought through the haze of hurt, trying to follow the voice of the only thing he truly loved in this world.

"Sherlock, wake up." John shook Sherlock's shoulder sharply, desperate to bring him out of sleep.

"John?" His eyes fluttered open, took in the sight of his own bedroom, and in his bed, John Watson. If he believed in such silly things as Heaven, this would be his. "John." The whispered name was like a benediction on his lips. He was home.

"Are you alright?" John knew the question was asinine. He knew what the nightmare had been about. Of course Sherlock wasn't alright. But he asked anyways.

"Fine," Sherlock replied, his voice hoarse and rough. "Sorry to wake you. Go back to sleep."

"Do you want to talk about it?" It wasn't the first time John had asked Sherlock that question after he'd woken from a nightmare. But each time he'd asked in the hospital, he'd been met with silence. He didn't expect it to be any different that night. Neither did Sherlock, at first. It might have been the comfort of being in his own home, his own bed. It might have been the thread of intimacy between him and John that tugged just below his heart. It might have been that he was just ready to talk. But before he knew what was going on, his mouth had opened and there were words tumbling out.

"My father left when I was two," he said softly. "And my mother was never the same after that." John waited, holding his breath. Sherlock never spoke of his childhood. Never opened up about his past. "I can't properly explian what it was like growing up there. Mycroft was off in his own little world. Always the perfect student and son. I care about my brother, but he's a bit of a twat. Growing up with a perfect sibling wasn't easy. For a long time, I felt that my mind, my ability to think faster, cleverer, harder than everyone else was a curse instead of a gift. My IQ is higher than Mycroft's, but I would have sacrificed those extra points to have his ease of conversation, his ready manner with everyone he comes across.

I was in primary school the first time I realized I could read my mother. Not just her emotions. A true read. And I cried stupid, pointless tears over the lost of her. A child should never have to know the exact moment they realize they no longer share familial affection for the woman who birthed them. After that I closed myself off. From everything. Everyone. I left home for uni at sixteen. I could have gone sooner, but I found myself...scared. Yes my home life was a mess, but it was what I knew. I was familiar with all the pains the place could cause.

When I did go, I realized I'd been right to wait. Any thoughts I might have entertained of finally finding a place to fit in were obliterated that first day. I had been called freak before, of course, but somehow this seemed worse. These weren't just playground children. These were my peers in academia. To be so reviled by them for my brain was...hard." He took a deep breath and shook his head. "I used to still have some soft spots back then. There was that part of me that craved acceptance and companionship. I even reached out and made a few acquaintances. But even they reviled me. You've met Seb. He was one of the only ones who spoke more than a handful of words to me. I occasionally did his homework or solved some problem for him, merely for those few words. I was so weak, so desperate for this ridiculous notion of esteem even from one person." He said the words with all the disdain he felt they deserved. "I wasn't born a cruel man, John. I admit that I'm lacking, in many ways, the basic things that draw one human being to another. But it was years of rejection and taunting and ruined hopes that taught me to close myself off. My mind is my shield. Inside it, I am impenetrable. No one can touch me there. No one can reach me. Except you."

John stared through the darkness into Sherlock's eyes. He couldn't believe that Sherlock had opened up to him so much. Shared such private details of his past. In that moment, he knew exactly what Sherlock meant. He wasn't part of the outside world any longer. He was behind that fortress with Sherlock. And it gave him the ability to bring the great man down from the inside out. Such trust. Such love. He felt overwhelmed with it. There weren't any words to say, so he simply pulled Sherlock's head down to his and kissed his forehead softly.

Soothed by the tender display of affection, Sherlock let John tuck his face against John's neck. Arms were wrapped tightly around his shoulders, the warm, reassuring body pressed close. Sherlock wasn't alone any longer. And he never would be again.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter _13, in which there is a steamy shower, and Sherlock loses the bread bin._**

The next morning, Sherlock woke first. He rarely slept more than a few hours at a time, and was pleasantly surprised to find that he'd slept most of the night. The logical side of him attributed it to a release of certain chemicals in his brain due to a balance of... oh sod it all, he knew the truth. It was because he'd slept in Dr John Watson's arms.

He looked down at John. In sleep, his mouth was adorably relaxed and open just a bit. Sherlock half expected there to be a little spot of drool on his pillow, but it was dry. He watched John's chest rise and fall in a slow, steady rhythm. As he did, his own chest tightened in reaction to the emotions swirling through him. All of a sudden, there was a coil of fear there as well. Not fear of John- of course not- but fear _for_ him. Fear because of him. Now that he knew what his life had been missing, Sherlock was cruelly aware that he did not want to go back. He wouldn't. There was no getting over John Watson. If anything happened to him...it was unthinkable.

And that knowledge created a major weak spot for Sherlock. He'd do anything to protect the doctor, and it wouldn't take a genius for others to see that. It was a weakness. A critical one.

His face softened again because, despite the risk, he wouldn't have it any other way. There was finally a chink in Sherlock Holmes' impenetrable armour. Now, he would just have to be clever enough not to ever let anyone use it against him. And woe to the person who thought to harm John to get at Sherlock. They would see just how far a genius sociopath would go to protect the one person in the world they love.

John stirred, stretched and his eyes blinked open. "Morning," he said in his sleep roughened voice.

"Morning," Sherlock drawled back. He slanted a smile at John and received one back.

"Well, ah, shall I go make tea?"

"By all means. Unless you'd rather join me in the shower, of course."

"In the...oh, well I guess-"

"Don't feel obliged, John. It's just an offer."

"Would this be a 'hey, flatmate lets conserve hot water by hopping in together and maybe you can wash my back since I've got a gimp hand' shower, or a 'hey person I've just shagged and would like to shag again, why don't we pop into the shower and spend a little more time naked' shower?"

Sherlock smirked and cocked a brow. "Is there any reason it can't be both?"

"I certainly don't see why not." Despite his earlier uncertainty, John realized his morning erection would definitely like being seen to, and the fact that there was a gorgeous man that he loved willing to do it was one of the most pleasant things to wake up to. He climbed out of the bed, fully aware that he was starkers, and followed Sherlock to the bathroom.

As John adjusted the water temperature, Sherlock unwrapped his ribs, then eased off his knee brace. The incisions were nearly all healed, leaving behind a criss-cross of raised flesh reaching nearly all the way around his leg. Putting weight on the joint for thrusting the night before probably hadn't been optimal, but by his calculations, it would take worse strain than that to do any real damage. John turned back to him, the doctor in him taking over and inspecting all of Sherlock's injuries carefully.

"Everything up to your standards, doctor?" Sherlock lifted a brow at him.

"I'll not say I'm exactly pleased with how much you've been using your injured limbs as a doctor, but as a man, I can't complain..."

"Good then, because it wouldn't do to have you fussing needlessly over minor injuries."

"Minor?"

Sherlock ignored the shocked question. "Besides, it would be an insult of my intelligence to assume I was ignorant to the inter-workings of the human body and hence unaware of how to care for my own injuries. And you know better than that certainly."

"Doesn't mean I have to like how much you push yourself," John muttered. "But I'm not planning to nag you if you're worried about that. I trust you not to push too hard. I do plan on nagging you once we get to breakfast, though, so lets get cleaned up so I can start."

Sherlock chuckled and allowed John to help him up. They entered the smallish shower together and both let out small moans of pleasure as the hot water beat against their skin. They glanced at each other in unison, smiled, then paused. Sherlock realized that he'd never in his life shared the shower with another person and wasn't exactly sure how things like this went. John realized that his normal post shag shower moves probably wouldn't work quite the same on Sherlock.

"Would you hand me my soap?" Sherlock finally asked. John turned and was about to hand it to him when he realized it was Sherlock's right hand he held out for the soap.

"Ah, no. Not supposed to get that cast wet, remember?"

"I thought you weren't going to nag me till breakfast?"

"Its not a nag, I'm just..." He thought quickly. "Offering my services. Like at the hospital. Only naked."

"Well, how could I refuse?"

John moved behind Sherlock, soaping his shoulders, his back, his stomach. When his hand dropped to Sherlock's groin, he found the man hard and straining. In not quite professional moves, he soaped his hand and stroked it up and down the throbbing length. He heard and appreciated Sherlock's quick intake of air. Satisfied, he moved lower, cupping the weight of him, spreading soap. Again, Sherlock gasped softly. Then John had moved away, down his legs. He carefully made sure the incisions on Sherlock's knee were clean and healed enough to be washed. When he stood again, Sherlock was staring at him, obviously thinking hard.

"What?" John was suddenly self conscious.

"I find...that that was especially enjoyable." He sounded surprised. "If I only use my left hand, will you let me return the favour?"

"By all means." John handed him the soap. Sherlock stepped behind John and brought his chest to John's back. The suds still clinging to his skin made them slick. Sherlock's cock slipped and pressed against John's arse, making them both moan a little. But Sherlock only started to wash John's chest, following the same pattern down that John had. He lingered slightly at John's shoulder. The scar there was larger than it ought to have been. Sherlock could tell that the doctor had stitched it himself. Nearly thirty stitches by the time all was said and done. In those conditions, the chance of infection would have been high. The chances of getting at pain medicine drastically low. Something akin to empathy stirred in Sherlock. Before he could let it grip him too tightly, he moved lower, across John's stomach and finally to his groin.

He was, admittedly, a little more in depth when it came to washing John there than John had been with him. He enjoyed listening to John moan low, feeling his hips buck. He took time to explore. Aside from clinical, medical knowledge, Sherlock really knew very little about the erogenous zone. He could see the structure of veins contained within it like a road map in his head, but he found himself fascinated by each small spot that would elicit pleasure in John. Each caress that had him closing his eyes against the waves of it. Much to Sherlock's surprise, there was a kind of primal satisfaction to cleaning his lover. It was the same unnecessary and ancient drive in him to provide food, to see to the comforts of his companion. He wasn't an animal that needed to shelter his mate from the harsh winter so that their offspring might flourish. But still, the drive was there, lurking within him.

He accepted it, understood it, ignored it. But it wasn't just some piece of knowledge he could pack away in a box in his mind palace. Or better yet, destroy. No, this was bred into his genes. It was like a physical memory, his body carrying out deep seated urges almost without his mind's consent. Almost. But Sherlock would conquer those demands. After he made sure John had a proper breakfast.

Bracing both hands against the shower walls, he gently lowered himself to his knees. John at first let his head fall back, body already straining in anticipation. Then the doctor in him came back to the surface.

"Sherlock, your knee-"

"Do shut up John," Sherlock said easily. Then he silenced his friend with one long lick from base to tip. John groaned, his every thought pushed back to make way for the intense pleasure. Sherlock took a fierce sense of satisfaction in being able to drive John to that point, blank his mind and entice his body. After a few more teasing licks, he took John's whole length into his mouth. It was a sensation unlike any other for Sherlock. The clean, salty taste of John's skin, the hard feel of his cock throbbing with more and more pleasure. He delighted in the different ways he could make John moan, in exploring each new method of driving the doctor wild. He drew deeper, letting the head of John's cock slip into the top of his throat. The sound John made was a garbled cross between a curse and a groan. Practically purring in satisfaction, Sherlock repeated the move, over and over as water ran down his face and body.

Sherlock could feel John getting closer, tensing and winding tight for release. He debated for a moment how he wanted this to end, then decided that it would probably be most pleasurable for John if Sherlock kept his mouth on him right through the end. Sherlock moved faster, drawing John deeper and intensifying the sensation.

"Sherlo-" John gasped, tried again. "Sherlock, I'm- fuck, I'm-" He put his hands into Sherlock's hair and attempted feebly to draw him away, but Sherlock stayed firmly in place. Half to reassure and please John, half because he simply wanted to, Sherlock moaned low, sending vibrations dancing up and down John's length. With an inarticulate cry, John peaked. His body tensed and released, muscles contracting sharply as the ecstasy tore through him. Sherlock continued to suck, softer now, as he let John ride out the orgasm. He swallowed, filed that sensation away to examine at some future time, then released John.

Though he felt limp as a wet noodle, John helped Sherlock stand. "That was...well that was..."

"Articulate as always," Sherlock said with a smirk. John splashed water at him and laughed.

"Yeah, well you've turned my brain to mush with that. I've never had an orgasm like that from head."

"You've never been with such an observant partner," Sherlock said without modesty.

"True." John stood still a moment, letting his strength come back to him. He studied the man in front of him, watched the water slide down those slim, strong shoulders, course over that pale chest. He knew that Sherlock was still hard and suddenly had the desire to sate him. He pushed Sherlock back against the shower wall and kissed him, hard. Before Sherlock could process the new development, John slid down to his knees.

"John-" Sherlock was cut off by John's hand wrapping around his length. "No, John-" he tried again. "We've already discussed this. Reciprocation isn't necessary. I'm aware of your issues with this and-"

"Do shut up," John said, using Sherlock's earlier words. He didn't think. Didn't allow himself to be confused or torn about the issue. This was the man he loved, the man he wanted to please, and right at that moment John would have done anything at all to give Sherlock release. He wanted to share that pleasure with Sherlock. With an intensity that startled both of them, John captured Sherlock's cock in his mouth and started to suck.

Sherlock wanted to analyze every moment, let his mind examine every movement, every reaction of his body. But his thoughts were left behind in the onslaught of pleasure. Instead, he let himself be taken over and filed each moment away for future examination. He'd received oral sex before, of course, but it had never felt like this. It had been a hollow kind of pleasure, akin to a halfhearted back massage. This was something altogether different. All consuming, overwhelming, tearing through him on a rampage. The pleasure spiked from his groin and spread out through his body, his blood singing in his veins, nerves tingling. Even more curious, was the deep searing ache in his chest. It felt as if his heart was swelling, love overfilling it until he was near to bursting with it. This wasn't strictly within John's comfort zone, but he was giving of himself to Sherlock because he cared for him. It was selfless and generous and such a clear sign of love.

Even as he felt himself near release, Sherlock was reminded yet again that of the two of them, John was the special one. John was the irreplaceable one. John was...everything. Then all thought was lost as his orgasm slammed into him. It struck with the force of a bull whip, breaking down Sherlock's every barrier. Sweet agony, mindless pleasure, nirvana. It was nothing like what he'd experienced before. This was new and it was paradise. What he'd had before was only a hollow shadow of this bliss.

As Sherlock shuddered and fought to catch his breath, John sat back on his heels and fought his grin. For a moment there, he'd thought he was going to drown. He'd been so intent on Sherlock that he inhaled through his nose and forgot that they were in the shower. Water slipped into his airway and just as he'd started to sputter and cough, Sherlock's whole body tensed for his orgasm. All in all, it hadn't been what he would call a perfect first experience for himself, but there was still that ridiculous smile on his face. Watching Sherlock come apart like that, knowing it was John who drove him there, was empowering and delightful and incredibly sensual.

"John-" Sherlock ran his hand through his hair and water sluiced off. "That was...absolutely..."

"Now who's the articulate one?" John stood and laughed. Sherlock joined him, both of them leaning against the wall of the shower, shoulders shaking in mirth. When they both caught their breath, John shut off the water and they stepped out. After drying himself, John helped Sherlock pat his back dry and once more wrap his ribs. John's dressing gown was on the back of the door but Sherlock's was still in the sitting room. So, John was treated to the sight of Sherlock, still damp, wet hair sending little droplets of water rolling down his back, limp down the hallway stark naked. When he reached the robe, Sherlock glanced over his shoulder and caught John appreciating the sight of his bum.

Sherlock, who'd never given that part of his body more than a passing thought, let alone felt pride in it, suddenly was very grateful for the way he was formed. Knowing he was pleasing to John's eyes was somehow terribly important to him. Silly, but true. He took a little longer than necessary lifting the dressing gown and putting it on, giving John just a few more moments to enjoy the view. Then he cinched the belt and limped over to the kitchen.

"Right then," John cleared his throat, aware he'd been staring. "Breakfast?"

"Yes, please," Sherlock responded. He put the kettle on and opened the fridge, intent on finding something to feed John. As he did, he suddenly became aware that John was once more staring at him. He looked over and knew instantly this wasn't an appreciative stare. It was confusion. "What?" He shut the fridge and crossed his arms defensively.

"_You're_ going to make breakfast?" The incredulity was almost comical in John's tone.

"I'm perfectly capable of cooking," Sherlock said blandly. "I fed myself for nearly thirty years without your aid."

"And you did a right bang up job of it too," John groused. "Miracle you didn't starve."

"I'd appreciate it if you'd stop your whining long enough to kindly tell me where the bread is."

"Generally I'd say in the bread box."

"What?" Sherlock looked around to where John was pointing. There, on the counter, was a large bin marked BREAD. "Why on earth would it be there?"

"Maybe because its got the name labeled right on it?"

"That's not the optimal location for bread at all! Considering the elevation, the lay out of this room, consistency of use-"

"Sherlock why don't you just let me make the beans and toast?"

"Why?"

"Because I'm afraid that by the time you're done bungling about in there, the whole kitchen will have gone arse over tea kettle and I'll never be able to find another blasted thing again."

Sherlock uncrossed his arms, opened his mouth to say something, then crossed them again and stalked out of the kitchen. "Fine," he said shortly, then went to pour the tea instead. It had been a ridiculous urge anyways, to feed John. John was a grown sodding man, he didn't need someone to feed him. Sherlock would just have to content himself with watching John eat and shutting out his primitive instincts.

Quick in the kitchen, John soon brought out two plates and set them down. Sherlock sat back in his chair, sipped his tea, and watched John take a bite. He'd only taken two more before he stopped, set his toast down and glared at Sherlock.

"Are you going to watch me the whole time?"

"Perhaps."

"Sherlock, you need to eat too. And its a little disquieting to have your every bite observed."

"Why?"

"Because you're half starved! As your doctor, I'd say you need to put on at least-"

"No, why is it uncomfortable to be observed while you eat?"

"Oh...I dunno. Just is. It'd be like someone looking over your shoulder while you work."

"You often do," Sherlock reminded him. John had the grace to flush.

"Yeah, well you're nice to watch. On an intellectual level, I mean. Well, on a physical level too, but watching your mind work-"

"You enjoy it?"

John let out a breath. "Yeah. I do."

"And I enjoy watching you eat. It...soothes me."

"It soothes you?" Both John's brows shot up.

"Yes. I'm not going into the specifics, as they are entirely asinine, but suffice it to say that I enjoy watching you eat similarly to the way you enjoy watching me work. Its not quite the same, but the example is close enough for explanation."

"Um...well alright then." John lifted his toast and took another bite. "But do eat yours as well. I meant it about you needing to put on weight."

Normally, Sherlock would have dismissed the directive. But that stirring of empathy tugged at him again. He could understand the desire to see your partner healthy and hale. So despite him seeing it as an unnecessary inconvenience, Sherlock dutifully ate his breakfast.

_**I hope you all enjoyed it! If you did, could you make my day and leave me a review? The good fairy gives hot smutty dreams of Benedict Cumberbatch to people who leave reviews ; )**_


	14. Chapter 14

_**Just a short little chapter, in which there is absolute, unabashed fluff which will be built upon later. Happy reading!**_

Several hours later, Sherlock was at the desk checking his email and sending replies two years over due. John sat in his chair reading a book, content to simply be in the same place as Sherlock. The silence was companionable. After a while, Sherlock lost interest in the emails and his eyes wandered over to John. The doctor was still engrossed in his book, turning pages one point six times faster than he did with books he didn't care for. His gaze was drawn to John's lips after a few moments. It confounded him how much those lips delighted and fascinated him.

Sherlock had never before understood kissing. Not really. Oh, he knew that people liked it, craved it, used it as a form of affection. But it was the _why_ he'd never understood. The lips were quite sensitive, but so was the inside of the wrist. Why did people not kiss their lover's wrists? Or simply press their wrist to their lovers' wrist? Wasn't that just as effective? But now, though the idea of kissing John's wrist also appealed to him, Sherlock found himself faced with that same longing as the masses. He wanted to feel John's lips on his own. He wanted the physical pleasure of it as well as the emotional reaction it invoked.

As if sensing Sherlock's thoughts, John looked up. "How long have you been watching me?" he asked with an indulgent smile.

"I wasn't watching you."

"Your eyes were on me. If that's not watching, what is it?"

"I was observing. And thinking."

"Oh?"

"Yes." Sherlock decided to preform a few experiments. He rose, crossed to John's chair and bent down to kiss the man. Caught off guard but not at all displeased, John returned the kiss. After a moment, Sherlock broke away and drew John's wrist up, turning it over to expose the pulse points. He pressed his lips against the sensitive skin. Instantly, chills broke out over John and his blood was pumping hotly. "Interesting," Sherlock murmured softly.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

Sherlock ignored the question. He lifted his own hand and pressed his wrist to John's. The reaction wasn't at all the same. He could still feel John's pulse, but it seemed more affectionate and less sexual. He wasn't entirely sure what that meant. Nor had he discovered why lips evoked the sexual reaction that wrist to wrist lacked. Perhaps it was just a basic facet of human nature.

"If you're ready for another round we can give it a go, but remember I'm an old man. I need breaks!"

"Old, John?" Sherlock's lips twitched at a smile. "Well then, I'd better not wear you out with my young, wild ways."

"You're not that much younger than me," John scowled.

"You're the one who brought it up."

"Yeah, well I take it back. Lets go upstairs and I'll prove just how young and wild I am."

Sherlock laughed. "No need John. I'm well aware that you're quite spry and have an admirable amount of stamina. Besides, that wasn't the point of my experiment."

"Experiment?" John looked offended. "Excuse me, did you just say that kissing me was an experiment?"

"No don't be like that, I was merely trying to discover what it is precisely about lips that makes them such a common spot for caresses. And why lips to lips and not other parts just as sensitive."

John considered. "A kiss with wrists?"

"Why not?"

"Well...I'm not sure." He took Sherlock's hand and again pressed their pulse points together. "Its not unpleasant." He looked at their joined joints for another moment. "Its quite nice in fact. But I guess its not quite the same."

"Nor was lips to wrist." Sherlock demonstrated again. John's reaction was much the same.

"No, that isn't the same." John's voice was just a little breathier. He blinked a few times and tried to slow his heart. Just when he thought he was back to normal, Sherlock kissed him again. John felt as if he'd somehow gotten on the Holmes Rollercoaster of Sexual Stimulation. His feelings were all over the map. When Sherlock broke away, he let out a long slow breath. Sherlock shook his head.

"I'm quite perplexed."

"I'm quite horny," John said back just as casually.

"You're always quite horny, John." Sherlock perched on the edge of John's chair.

"Not like this I'm not."

"Are you propositioning me, doctor?"

"That depends."

"On?"

"Is it working?" John grinned and Sherlock just laughed, then pulled him to his feet.

_**as I said, just a little snippet, but I'm planning on working more of this in later in the story. Thank you thank you thank you to those that have reviewed! Have I told you it makes my day? Have I told you it keeps me going? Well it does. So my gratitude is forever yours, dear readers. Keep reviewing, and Ill keep writing, and we'll all get our Sherlock fixes! ; )**_


	15. Chapter 15

_**A new chapter for you, my dears! Chapter 15, in which our beloved characters discuss PDAs! Enjoy, and as always, Happy Reading!**_

That night, they went out for dinner at the Chinese place just round the corner from their flat. Though the walk wasn't a long one, Sherlock still felt some discomfort in his knee as they went. He carefully ignored it. They were almost to the restaurant when he realized John was frowning, deep in thought.

"Something on your mind, John?"

"Hm? Oh, no. Nothing."

"You're quite sure?" Sherlock knew John was lying and John knew Sherlock knew. He sighed and shook his head.

"Its nothing, really. I was just wondering about PDAs."

"I'm certain there's an abundance of information on the internet if you know which kind in particular you're interested in. I was actually just thinking earlier that I'll need to get myself a new one. I'm quite fond of the one I've got now, but its sure to be out of date. It seems they become obsolete almost as soon as you purchase the bloody things." He stopped, met John's confused gaze. "Oh." It clicked then. "Oh, you mean public displays of affection. What specifically were you wondering about?"

"How I feel about them. How you feel about them."

"Reached any conclusions yet?"

"On your opinion? Gods no. You're always a total mystery to me, Sherlock."

"On your own, then?"

"I'm not sure." They reached the restaurant and went inside. The waitress asked them to wait a moment while she cleared a table for them.

"Do you think your preferences on the matter are different now that you're with a male?"

John looked around as if a shot had been fired. "What, are you trying to announce it to the whole bloody world?" Sherlock's brows drew together in surprise.

"This is my normal speaking voice, John." A thread of hurt was laced in his carefully neutral tone. John sighed, realizing Sherlock was right. He shook his head.

"Sorry. I just don't see it necessary to broadcast that kind of information."

"I see." Sherlock's jaw tightened and he kept his eyes forward. The waitress returned and before John could say anything more, she seated them in a corner table and then went to fetch their drinks. Sherlock still wouldn't look at John. He stared fixedly at the wall over his shoulder.

"Sherlock." No response. "Sherlock, I'm sorry."

"For what, John? For being so insecure about your sexuality that you're ashamed to admit you're in a relationship with me? I think you've already got your answer about public displays of affection," he hissed. His tone was whip sharp, eyes burning into John's. The anger was simmering, stoked by hurt.

"That's not what I meant!"

"Wasn't it? What other conclusion can I draw, then, from the fact that you were suddenly terrified that someone within earshot might have overheard my comment?"

"Look, I'm just not used to it. Its not about you."

"How can it not be?"

"Because you were right, its about my insecurities! Mine! I'm not ashamed of you. Hell, I'm sleeping with the most brilliant man in all of Britain! Its me, Sherlock. I've been fighting that label for years now and its not like I can just flip a switch and have it turn off. I'm barely comfortable talking about this stuff with you in private, let alone in a public place."

Sherlock studied him, a little of the anger dying out. He tried to keep in mind that John was extremely new to this. Sherlock never doubted his affection, but still the idea of John being unable to admit they were a couple stung him. "I can admit that perhaps our location made the context of my question inappropriate. But you need to decide just what kind of relationship we're in and why you feel it necessary to keep it secret."

"I'm not." John paused, collected his thoughts and started again. "I'm not keeping it a secret. I know exactly what kind of relationship we're in and I don't have any reason to hide it."

Sherlock studied him carefully. He looked for any signs of uncertainty, any trace of deceit. There was none. "Alright then."

The waitress returned with their drinks and took their order. When she left, John studied the table for a while in silence. Their food came eventually and they started to eat. Halfway through his meal, John pushed his plate away. Sherlock looked up at him curiously.

"I think you're right. I do think my opinions on it are different now that I'm in this type of relationship. I'm not saying that I want to hide it, but I think it has an affect on my views of PDAs."

"If you've no intention of hiding the relationship, then what difference does it make who sees you display affection to me?"

"It just does. I'm not sure how to describe it. You know what we're doing isn't everybody's cup of tea."

"Should people choose to judge negatively, I reserve the right to point out to them what complete and utter morons they are. Anyone who has something nasty to say about the type of relationship you and I engage in can sod off."

"Well I know-"

"And further, the fact that there is still a stigma about same sex relationships only goes to show the backwards and ignorant state of today's society."

"I never knew you had such strong feelings about the issue."

"You never asked," Sherlock said simply. "Besides, my opinion on the subject doesn't matter for much unless it involves my personal affairs, so there's generally no point in airing it."

"Until now," John added. Sherlock nodded. "Anyways, what I meant about it not being everyone's cup of tea wasn't because there are shitty people in the world. I mean it as a common courtesy. I don't necessarily want to see two people snogging when I walk down the street, same sex or no. Its not very dignified, and there are some things left behind closed doors. And there are times and places that I think aren't appropriate for any kind of displays."

"Such as?"

"Well, crime scenes for a start."

"Naturally," Sherlock agreed.

"At either of our places of business."

"My place of business is our home, John. We've already broken that one."

"I mean when there are clients there. And for me, when I'm at the clinic."

"Agreed then. Any others?"

"Not that come to mind."

"Then I still fail to see how your views on the subject pertain to gender. I would assume you would follow those same protocols even in a relationship with a woman."

"You're right, I would. I guess when it comes down to it, its not that my opinion on them in general is different. Its just that I'm more uncomfortable about it. I know I shouldn't be, and I know its something that I'll get past. But I'm being honest with you about it."

"I appreciate your candour. Truly I do. And I understand your reticence has more to do with societal norms than your feelings for me. As such I shall try not to take it as a personal insult."

"Thank you," John said with a sigh of relief. "I take it that all means you're pro PDA?"

Sherlock scowled. "Not at all. As a whole I find them perfectly vulgar."

"What?!" John's exclamation was so loud it startled the waitress who'd come back to clear their plates and drop off the bill. Sherlock looked mildly surprised at the reaction.

"Problem?"

"What the bloody hell did we just go through that row for if you already knew you were against them?"

"Row? That wasn't a row. It was a spirited discussion."

"Oh come on. You were steaming there for a while. Admit it."

"Alright," Sherlock pursed his lips. "I admit it. But I still don't think that was a row."

"Are you trying to distract me?" John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. "I think you're trying to distract me. Why did we just go rounds about that if you knew all along it wasn't an issue we would need to face?"

"On the contrary, I think it was quite important that we have that debate. Your feelings on the matter are just as important as mine. Its not as if I get the deciding factor on the final decision. If you had been strictly for them, and me adamantly against them, it would have been necessary to reach a compromise."

"But it wasn't necessary. So what was the point of that discussion?"

"Because you need to push your boundaries about this," Sherlock admitted. "You've already made it quite clear that there are several things here that you're uncomfortable with. Not only is it necessary for me to know where you stand on these issues, but its necessary for you to explore your own feelings as well. You said it yourself, its a stigma that shouldn't be there but is. How are you going to react when Lestrade finds out? Anderson and Donovan? You know they will both have nasty things to say."

"Your brother," John added, shaking his head at the very thought.

"Mycroft? No, he already knows."

"He- what do you mean he already knows?! Its only just been a day!"

"That's approximately twenty three hours longer than Mycroft will have needed to figure it out."

"Does he have cameras in our flat? Bloody hell, did we give your brother a show last night?" John shuddered.

"Do you really think I would have allowed anyone to witness our most intimate moments, John?"

"Ah, no, I guess not. Well good then. I guess I just forget that your brother is an omnipotent know it all."

"No need to worry, he's far from omnipotent."

"What a relief," John rolled his eyes and chuckled. "But anyway, as to your reasoning for this little bout of fun, I understand the point you're making but I feel its unnecessary. Half of London already thinks we're a couple, everyone at Scotland Yard included."

"Ah, but its going to be different when they know for sure. Especially after you've been denying it all these years."

"Yeah, well it was always true. Besides I highly doubt Lestrade will have anything negative to say about it. And Anderson...well he can be nasty all he likes, but if he goes too far I'll just deck him."

"Your moral fiber won't allow you to hit Donovan."

"No, it won't. I'll leave her to you and your acid tongue."

"How considerate," Sherlock drawled sarcastically.

_**Tune in tomorrow for the next chapter! Also, a huge thank you to those that have reviewed! I love each and every one! Please keep them coming!**_


	16. Chapter 16

_**It's short, but here is it, chapter 16, in which there is reverse psychology! More tomorrow! Happy reading!**_

They walked home at a leisurely pace. Sherlock's limp was more pronounced than it had been before, so John wanted him to take it easy. John stuck close by Sherlock's side just in case he needed help. As they walked, their hands occasionally brushed.

"So when you say that public displays of affection are vulgar, do you mean all of them?"

"In general, yes. People's private lives should be kept just that- private. I don't want to see how they share intimacy with their partner, nor do I want them to see how I would with mine."

"Even things like holding hands?"

Sherlock slanted a look at John. "Are you asking to hold my hand, John?"

"Er, no. I'm just checking."

"Shall we go through this point by point then? Hugging seems to a norm even among friendly relationships, so I see no issue with that. Holding hands is probably the least crass of the public displays, but I have always viewed it as a superfluous gesture. It seems to me that its only point after childhood is to show possession of another person, which is to me, ridiculous. So unless you're afraid your partner is going to run out into traffic, I fail to see the point."

"Some people just want physical contact with the person they care about."

Sherlock slanted that same look at John once more. "Are you _certain_ you aren't asking me to hold your hand? You seem quite keen on the idea."

"No," John chuckled. "I'm just saying. Its not always people being possessive. Sometimes they just want to touch their partner."

"Well I suppose in that case, its not really all that bad. I see no reason that it would be improper, in the right context. Not all the time, certainly, but on occasion, when the need to touch ones partner simply becomes overwhelming, I can understand and accept that." They walked a bit further down the street, and as they did Sherlock considered John's explanation. Having experienced the urge to touch his own partner on more than one occasion, Sherlock supposed he could grant that it was a logical progression. Even as he had the thought, the urge suddenly struck him to try it with John. He glanced down the street and saw that it was mostly deserted. He didn't think John's concerns about the subject would apply on an empty street. "John," he asked as casually as he could. "May I hold your hand?"

John looked at Sherlock to make sure he was serious. Then, a small smile tugged at his lips. "Sure." As soon as he said it, Sherlock took John's hand and laced their fingers together. They continued on like that.

"I'd think you used reverse psychology on me if I believed in all that rubbish," Sherlock said with an easy grin.

"Then its a good thing you don't believe in it," John returned slyly. Sherlock's grip tightened affectionately. John squeezed back. The night was clear and bright, the air crisp and sweet, and he was holding the hand of the man he loved. All in all, it was a beautiful moment.

"You know, technically, we aren't actually touching. There are two sets of gloves between our skin," Sherlock pointed out.

John laughed. "Shut up, Sherlock."


	17. Chapter 17

_**I'm a few hours later than I usually like, but better late than never, yeah? So here's the long awaited chapter 17, in which we get to see Anderson and Donovan and the fun Sherlock has with them!**_

It was another week before Lestrade finally called them in on a case. Sherlock was almost totally healed, though his gait was still marred by a subtle limp. John had removed the last of his stitches the day before. Sherlock's wrist cast had only lasted until the morning after their dinner at the Chinese restaurant. John had walked in on him hacking it off with a Katana while the kettle whistled.

On the crime scene, they were let through the police tape by a plain faced officer. From afar, Sherlock could see that Anderson and Donovan were manning the door. "Ah, the fun begins," he whispered to John. His partner grinned, almost pitying the pair. They walked right up to the door and stopped directly in front of Anderson, who had his back to them. Sherlock tapped him on his left shoulder even though he was to the right. Anderson turned, turned yet more, then finally laid eyes on Sherlock.

He gasped, his jaw dropped, face paling. "Y-you! Sh- Sh- you!"

"Boo," Sherlock said with a smirk. Donovan, who'd been gaping at Sherlock as well, fainted dead away. Because Anderson was too dumbfounded to assist her, John caught her before she hit the floor. Sherlock tsked. "Leaving your lover to fall into the arms of another man? You must have really lost your touch whilst I was away, Anderson."

"You..."

"Yes, you've said that much already. Sher-lock. Sherlock. See if you can get it all together now."

"Sh-Sherlock!"

"Good!" Sherlock clapped him on the shoulder and Anderson flinched. "Well done."

"I knew it! I knew you weren't dead! I knew it!" Having recovered his power of speech, Anderson seemed almost wild in his insistence.

"Did you now? Well good for you, then. Unless, of course, I'm actually still dead. You haven't the habit of seeing ghosts, have you Anderson?"

Anderson looked a little desperately from Sherlock to John. Playing along, John kept his eyes straight ahead, not on either man. Anderson shook his head to try and clear it.

"Of course not!"

"Oh good. I'm sure you'd hate to find out that I'd decided to haunt you. Are you a superstitious man, Anderson?" He grinned at the officer's quick intake of breath. He already knew the man was superstitious in the extreme. "Because if you were that sort, I'd be a little worried if I were you."

"Don't you try to pull this shit with me," Anderson said. His voice trembled. "I know its really you. You're here. Not some bloody ghost."

"If you say so," Sherlock said easily. He went past Anderson and waited for John to lay Donovan out on the steps. Just before they went into the house, Sherlock turned back to Anderson, who was facing the other way and muttering to himself. "Boo!" he whispered. Anderson jumped and let out a little shriek. Sherlock and John laughed all the way inside.

When they reached the detective inspector, Lestrade eyed them disapprovingly. "What did the two of you do to my officers?"

"Nothing at all, Lestrade. If they're silly enough to still believe in ghosts, that's hardly my fault."

"Sherlock!" Lestrade looked from Sherlock to John. "Him, I expect this from. But I thought you lot would know better."

John held out his hands in defence. "I didn't say a word," he excused honestly. Lestrade only shook his head and showed them to the body.

The case ended up being rather open and shut with Sherlock there. He spent five minutes inspecting the body and the items in the room, then stood with his arms clasped behind his back and announced, "The butler, in the drawing room, with the candlestick."

"What?" Lestrade said, right as John interrupted-

"Excuse me, but are we playing a game of Cluedo that I'm not aware of?"

"And you said I'd never be good at the game," Sherlock said with a grin.

"Wait, tell me what the bleeding hell is going on. What did you mean by that?"

"Simple. The killer of this man is the house's butler. Our victim came across his killer after discovering the man had just nicked a set of very expensive old candlesticks. Ones that had been in the family four or five generations I believe. In a panic, the butler hit his employer over the head with said candlestick and then fled the scene. I believe you'll find him at this address." He took a piece of paper from his pocket and jotted down at address.

"You've got to be kidding me," Lestrade said as he looked at the address in his hand.

"Far from it, Inspector."

"Come on, Lestrade. Have you ever known him to be wrong about this sort of thing?"

"Well- no. But that's just...oh hell. Forget it. How'd you know all that?"

Sherlock raised his brows. "Wouldn't it just be faster for you to take my word for it?"

"Faster, yes. But you know it doesn't work that way. I've got paperwork to fill out, and my boss won't accept, 'because Sherlock said' as the reason for my arrest."

"Fine." Sherlock sighed, then went on to point out all the little clues that had led him to his conclusion.

John watched as Sherlock worked. He'd almost forgotten how much he loved seeing the detective go through a crime scene and see all the things everyone else missed. It amazed him each and every time.

By the time they left, Donovan had woken up and she and Anderson were in an intense conversation. When Sherlock and John walked by, they looked up and glared.

"Wha'do you think you're on about, trying to convince someone you're a bleeding ghost?"

"I haven't tried to convince anyone of anything," Sherlock replied amiably. "Merely suggested the possibility. After all, it would take a dolt to possibly believe that." He smirked at Anderson.

"Why don't you get lost, ya freak? No one wants or needs you here."

"Quite the opposite, I'm afraid. It seems Lestrade has surrounded himself with idiots and requires my assistance."

"Yeah, well you and your fairy friend can-" Donovan stopped mid sentence as Sherlock took a menacing step towards her, absolute murder on his face. John actually feared for a moment that Sherlock might launch himself at the woman. Suddenly he wasn't the smug, misunderstood Consulting Detective. He was the man who'd spent two years hunting and killing thugs to protect the man he loved. The colour drained from Donovan's face and she stumbled back into Anderson.

"Watch your tongue, Donovan," Sherlock hissed at her darkly. It was the first time Donovan had ever seen Sherlock truly angry. And for the first time, she felt real fear of him. John pulled Sherlock further back from the officers.

"Nice to see you again, too, Sally," he called back pleasantly. He didn't even turn back to see Donovan blanch at his kindness in the face of her ugly remark. They got a few blocks away before Sherlock felt he had his temper under enough control to speak again.

"I apologize for that, John. I realize that sort of thing is exactly what you were trying to avoid when-"

"Don't, Sherlock. You're not responsible for what they say. And I honestly couldn't care less what they think. If they want to live with that kind of ignorance and cruelty, that's their loss not mine."

Sherlock looked like he wanted to say more, but before he could, a long black car pulled up beside them. Sherlock let out an impatient breath and rolled his eyes. The door opened and Mycroft stepped out.

"Sherlock," he greeted his brother. "John." He turned to the doctor and extended his hand. John shook it and gave Mycroft a tight smile. "I was wondering if I might have a word with you."

"We're rather busy right now, but perhaps if you try back at the end of eternity we'll have some free time then." Sherlock started to turn away.

"I meant John," Mycroft said stiffly.

"What?"

"Its the doctor I wish to speak to, Sherlock, so you need not waste either of our time by coming up with more creative ways to tell me to 'piss off.'"

"Whatever you've got to say to me you can say in front of Sherlock," John said slowly, eyeing the brothers.

"That may be true, but what I've got to say I won't say in front of him. So do kindly step into the car and lets get on with it."

"This is ridiculous," John argued. "You've got to know that I'm just going to tell him whatever you say. You might've just as well tried abducting me off the street again. The results will be the same."

"If I'd have taken you off the street with no conversation, Sherlock would have followed and I would have had to send my men to detain him."

"They'd have _tried_," Sherlock muttered.

"I thought instead I'd ask nicely and avoid all that embarrassment."

"Look, Mycroft-"

"Its fine, John. Just go with him." Sherlock shook his head and glared at his brother. "He'll never let it go until he gets his way. You might as well just do what he wants."

"I do believe its a family trait," Mycroft pointed out mildly. Sherlock only glared at him harder.

"You're sure about this?" John studied Sherlock's face, making sure he meant it.

"Yes. I'll meet you back at the flat."

"Yeah, alright then. I don't suppose you'd pick up a few groceries on your way? Milk and beans?"

"And put the kitchen 'arse over tea kettle' stocking the cupboards?" Sherlock smirked. "Wouldn't dream of it."

John couldn't help but laugh. He knew one day he'd regret saying that to Sherlock. Before he realized what he was doing, he'd taken a step towards the man and was about to kiss him. He froze, suddenly very aware that they were in front of Mycroft. Yes, Mycroft knew, but not only was he Sherlock's brother, but they'd already established that neither of them was quite ok with that kind of display. Still, he couldn't help the urge to do _something_. He wanted a small connection with Sherlock before he went off with Mycroft.

Sherlock read the intent in John's eyes. He smiled softly, then held out his hand. At first, John just looked at it oddly. After a beat, he lifted his own hand for the shake. Instead of a handshake, though, Sherlock clasped John's arm, pressing their wrists together. Their pulses beat against one anothers' steadily. A wrist kiss. John's reaction was instant and intense. Warmth blossomed in his chest and spread out until it surrounded him like a glow. Happiness surged through him. The touch was intimate in a way no one else would ever guess or understand. It was _them_. They both had strong feelings about privacy and society's standards, but this was a path they were forging together. Creating the way that suited them both.

In that moment, not only did John feel an overwhelming sense of love for his partner, joy and contentment, but he truly felt that there really was nothing he and Sherlock couldn't accomplish together.

_**so...what did you all think? Awesome, right? I fell totally and absolutely in love with their wrist kisses...they are going to stick around ; ) Tune in next week to see what Mycroft has to say to John!**_


	18. Chapter 18

**_Its here, folks! Chapter 18, in which John and Mycroft have a conversation. short and sweet, but to the point...just the way Mycroft likes it ; )_**

John watched as Sherlock turned and walked up the sidewalk toward Baker Street. The limp was slight, but it was enough to wish he'd have haled a cab for Sherlock before he'd turned to home. But he knew Sherlock would have waved it off anyways, so he simply watched Sherlock go, his heart still near to bursting because of their wrist kiss. He turned back to Mycroft and fought the urge to glare.

"I hope you realize that I won't tell you anything he wouldn't want me to."

"Why don't we get in, Dr Watson?" Mycroft gestured to the car. Grudgingly, John stepped in. As the car started off, Mycroft settled himself in and straightened his tie. "I see you and my brother seem to be getting on nicely," he said conversationally.

"Not that its any of your business, but yeah, we are."

"Good. I'm glad for you both."

"That's something you could have said with Sherlock here," John pointed out.

"And I can see some of my brother's surliness has rubbed off on you," Mycroft said reprovingly.

"No, I just don't like being put between the two of you. I'll always choose his side, Mycroft. You've got to know that."

"Oh, I'm very well aware. Its actually something I admire greatly, even if its often...inconvenient." He smiled at John. "What I'd like to know is how Sherlock is recovering."

"As his doctor, or as his flatmate?"

"As someone who cares for him."

"He's...fine. Brilliant, actually. Physically the only lingering issue is with his knee, but that's well on the mend."

"And psychologically?"

"Sherlock hates psychology."

"Yes, that he does. But you and I are both of a different ilk. Not every problem can be solved with smarts and determination."

"Just because I agree with that doesn't mean that I'm willing to talk to you about Sherlock's feelings behind his back."

"John." Mycroft said his name softly, making the doctor aware that he wasn't just talking to a nosy member of the British government. He was talking to Sherlock's only living family. "I'm concerned about him." It was the first time John had ever seen Mycroft show softness. He sighed, knowing that there were a few things he could admit to Mycroft that wouldn't betray Sherlock's confidence.

"He's doing well, Mycroft. Really well, considering. Yes, there are still lingering effects. He's still not comfortable letting a strange man touch him. He's careful about it- he doesn't flinch away from contact, he just manages to always keep himself out of reach. And there are times when the memories wake him up. But he's talking about them. He's dealing with it."

"Are there any issues he has because of that in regard to your relationship?"

Instantly, John's face shuttered. He could practically feel himself go cold and close off. "That's absolutely none of your bloody business." It was one thing to tell Mycroft that Sherlock was healing, it was another to talk to his lover's brother about their sex life.

"You're quite right, I apologize. I can see for a man like you, that would be out of line."

"Not just for a man like me. For a man like Sherlock as well."

Mycroft nodded. "My brother is in good hands." John glanced away and shrugged. "I am not prone to idle flattery when dealing with friends or family, John, and I believe you constitute both. I mean what I say. Sherlock is lucky to have you."

John didn't know if he was more shocked that Mycroft had given him such a lofty compliment or that he'd equated John to family. "I, ah, well thank you. Its mutual. I'm lucky to have him in my life."

"I'm glad you feel that way." The car slid to a stop. "I hope to see you again soon, Dr Watson." John reached for the door handle, then turned back.

"You could have asked all that with Sherlock here, you know."

"Ah yes, but there were certain questions that he would have interrupted before I could see how you would react to them. Which would have defeated the purpose of posing them."

John blinked at him. "A test? That's what this was? The question about our relationship? You just wanted to see how I'd react?" Mycroft said nothing at all. "How many years have we known each other, Mycroft?" John couldn't keep the hurt from his voice. "You should know by now that I'd never betray him. In any fashion."

"Quite true, John. Quite true. But perhaps you'll allow me a little latitude because the man we are talking about is my little brother."

John couldn't tell if Mycroft was overly protective, devious or paranoid. Probably all three. He only sighed and opened the door.

"Till next time, Mycroft."


	19. Chapter 19

_**Chapter 19, in which there is ridiculous fluffiness and perhaps the most romantic thing I've ever written.**_

_**Oh, and smut ; )**_

John arrived back at the flat with groceries in tow twenty minutes later. He climbed the stairs and was met by the sound of Sherlock's violin. The tune wasn't mournful or sad. If anything, it sounded almost combative. John had to wonder if Sherlock had written it specifically with Mycroft in mind. He went through the door and into the kitchen.

"How was your te a te with my brother?"

"Interesting, as usual."

"What did he want?"

"To test me," John admitted. "And to see how you're doing."

"Test you?" Sherlock was incredulous.

"Yeah. I think it was just his way of making sure that I'm right for you. Romantically."

"Nosy bastard."

"Yeah. But his heart's in the right place. I think." John shrugged. "Anyway, I guess I passed."

"Oh?"

"Apparently my refusal to talk to him about our sex life makes me A-ok in his book."

"He asked you about our sex life?" Sherlock was aghast.

John waved it off. "Not to get any real information. He just wanted to see if I'd say anything."

"But he wouldn't have stopped you if you'd talked," Sherlock grimaced. "Besides, he ought to know you better than that by now."

"That's what I said," John chuckled. "So listen, I was thinking about earlier..."

"Oh, don't worry, John, I have no intention of letting our favourite members of Scotland Yard ever say something like that about you again."

"No, that's not what I meant. I told you, I couldn't care less what those two idiots think. I wanted to talk about after that. When Mycroft showed up. Our...wrist kiss." He flushed a little at the term. There had to be a better name for it.

"Oh." Sherlock blinked at him, then smiled a little. "I thought it appropriate, considering the circumstances."

"Yeah, it was." John glanced out the window at the darkening sky, then back to Sherlock. "I just wanted to say thanks."

Sherlock's brows rose. "For?"

"Well I wanted to do something back there. I mean, I didn't want to snog you in front of your brother, but I wanted a connection. I wanted..."

"I saw," Sherlock interrupted softly.

"I know. And I'm grateful for it."

"One of the advantages of being with the most observant man in the world," he said with a smile.

"True. So thanks. For seeing it, and for giving it to me in a way we were both comfortable with. Because that thing is just ours, it made it more...special. I don't think I tell you this enough, but _you're_ special, Sherlock. And I don't just mean your mind."

Sherlock closed the distance between them and cupped John's cheek. "You're the special one, John. You always have been." He went on when John would have interrupted. "But maybe some of that unique, amazing mettle that makes you _you_ is rubbing off on me." He leaned down and pressed his lips to John's. What started out as a soft, sweet kiss soon built in intensity until it was all consuming. It left them breathless and weak with need.

Sherlock took the lead, tugging John down the hall and to the bedroom. Over the last few days they'd tended to sleep in Sherlock's room, but he'd made sure to stock both bedrooms with supplies just in case. Right then, he was grateful for that, because John's bedroom was closer and Sherlock wasn't willing to wait another moment. He knew exactly what he wanted, what he needed, the last barrier between them to be broken.

They tumbled onto the bed, hands everywhere at once. Clothing was shed at random. Pieces of it strewn across the floor and scattered without care. Soon they were skin to skin. Their hearts beat against one another's in a pounding rhythm. Both were ready, straining, anticipation hot and heavy in their limbs. John rolled them over so that he was beneath Sherlock. His hands stroked down Sherlock's back, fingers tracing the scars there, then gripped his hips.

Sherlock moaned at the feel of John's fingers digging into his hips. He kissed John harder, spurring him on. He knew there would be bruises there in the morning and it filled him with a fierce sense of satisfaction. It was something he'd reclaimed. Those ugly bruises that to him had been the worse, the most shameful, were now something he could see and take pleasure in. Those memories had been replaced with ones of love and passion. From John, they were beautiful reminders of the pleasure they shared.

In one quick move, he rolled them over again so that he was on his back. John paused, opening his eyes to look into Sherlock's face.

"I want you, John," Sherlock said softly.

"I want you too," John replied, his chest still rising and falling sharply.

"No, I want all of you. I want you to have me."

"Sherlock, we don't have to-"

"I know we don't have to. I _want_ to." He reached between them and wrapped his long fingers around both of their erections, squeezing and stroking together. John shuttered and groaned. "Please."

"Sherlock," John whispered, almost as a prayer. He opened his eyes again and looked down at the man beneath him. "Remember your promise to me. Anytime it bothers you, tell me and we'll stop. Promise me again."

"I promise, John." Sherlock bucked his hips up, sending a bolt of pleasure through both of them. John kissed him deeply, reaching onto the nightstand to where the small bottle sat. Though they both wanted quick and urgent, John refused to rush. He wanted, _needed_, this to be perfect. For both of them. He touched and teased, satisfied and seduced. When Sherlock was ready- long past ready and edging onto demanding- John settled his weight between Sherlock's knees.

Sherlock laid back and enjoyed each new sensation as it crashed over him. As he felt John's cock press against him there was an ever so small thread of fear, but it was edged out by lust and love. This was John, his John. This was love and connection and the beautiful intimacy that came from that. John kissed him almost desperately and ever so slowly pushed forward.

His body braced, but Sherlock wouldn't let the initial reaction last for long. It was swept away by pleasure that consumed him. He let out a low moan as John slid another inch into him. Each small movement set off a series of ripples that spread ecstasy through him. Soon, they were pressed together fully, as close as two beings can be. Their breath mingled, hearts thundering in tandem. The beauty of the moment was enough to make Sherlock want to cry out.

John pulled back, then pushed forward again with agonizingly sweet slowness. It was everything Sherlock had ever hoped it would be. His mind was taken back to what had happened to him, but not with fear and pain. It was a reclamation. The very thing that had been stolen from him, the goodness of intimacy that he'd never been able to experience before, was suddenly there in sparkling, breathtaking clarity. It obliterated the terror and shame. Sherlock could feel all the lines that had been carved into the walls of his mind. The cruel slashes cut into every surface. But John was covering them. Stroke by stroke he filled those spaces until they were obscured completely by the beautiful tapestry of their love. The ugly engravings painted over so all that could be seen and felt was the rapture the two of them created together.

In that moment of pure, unadulterated joy and pleasure, Sherlock felt himself come apart. John's name was torn from his lips and he was lost, lost in arcadia. John laboured above him, drawing yet more pleasure from him, giving Sherlock all of himself until with a strangled cry he buried himself deep and let go. He pressed his face to Sherlock's neck, gasping for breath, trying to wade through the storm of emotion and sensation that swamped him.

As Sherlock floated back to himself and regained conscious use of his limbs, he wrapped his arms tightly around John and simply hugged him. They lay like that for a long time, nothing between them but sweat and love. When he felt he could, John slowly rolled to his side and collapsed back onto the bed.

"Someone once told me," Sherlock said softly into the darkness, "That the only higher power I believe in is myself. As of this moment, that is no longer true." He turned onto his side and pressed his lips to John's forehead. "_You_ are my higher power, John. I've gone through my whole life believing in nothing but pure logic. But this- love- is more powerful than any inscrutable logic could ever be. It defies all preconceptions, creates miracles, destroys fear. I've become a pagan, doctor, because yours is the shrine at which I worship. I've surrendered myself to you, body and soul. Everything that I am, ever was, ever will be, is yours. The light inside you has brought me out from the darkness, and I never want to spend another moment away from your love."

John was stunned, speechless, choked with the emotion that shook him to his very core. What could he say to Sherlock? What words were there to express the absolute adulation, utter devotion, incandescent joy he felt? "You'll never have to," he finally whispered. "I love every fiber of your being, Sherlock Holmes. I always will."

_**I've gone back through and re read that last bit like 4 times and each time I end up squealing like a little girl who just got a pony. I just...gah! There aren't words for how much I love their romance! Anyhoo, there is only one chapter after this. Crazy, right? I didn't even see the end sneaking up on us, but here it is. One more chapter, and I've been debating on either posting it tomorrow or waiting and posting it on Wednesday. What do you guys think? And what did you think of the chapter?**_

_**I truly and honestly treasure each and every review, so do please drop me a few words and I'll love you forever!**_


	20. Chapter 20

_**sorry sorry everyone, I know it's a bit later than planned, but hopefully the length and content make up for my tardiness. Here it is, chapter 20, the end, in which John uses reverse psychology once more ; )**_

Spring fell upon Great Britain in a splash of colour and light. Things in the Holmes-Watson flat continued along the same routine that they'd developed that first week back. John gave up regular surgery hours to work as a consultant, which left him more time to work with Sherlock on their cases. Sherlock continued to be himself- sometimes he was insufferable, sometimes he was moody, sometimes if a case frustrated him he would stand by the window and play his violin for hours on end, even into the night. He was generally tactless, usually incapable of empathy, wholly antisocial, and the absolute light of John's life. John hadn't expected Sherlock to suddenly change everything about himself once they became a couple. After all, it was the surly, prickly, abrasive genius that he first fell in love with.

What did change, though, was the tone of their relationship. They still had the same dynamic, but it was now combined with passion and love. Their nights were spent in each other's arms, their evenings filled with intimate talk and touches. When one of them wanted affection in public, they clasped forearms, pressing their wrists together in their unique kiss.

Another thing that changed was Anderson and Donovan's treatment of the couple. After seeing for the first time just what kind of wrath lived in Sherlock, the duo was reluctant to talk to Sherlock and John at all, let alone insult them. If he was being honest, John almost missed the combative banter. He thought perhaps Sherlock did as well, but neither of them tried to engage the officers. Of course, Lestrade noticed the change and demanded to know what Sherlock had done to his subordinates. Sherlock merely shrugged and said quite honestly that all he'd said was that Donovan should watch her tongue. The Detective Inspector had narrowed his eyes in disbelief, but John backed up Sherlock's story. When Lestrade discovered the new extent of John and Sherlock's relationship, he could guess what Sally and Mark had done to deserve Sherlock's ire and couldn't fault him for it. Personally, he was damn grateful that Sherlock had finally found domestic bliss. Because the prediction he'd made to John years before had finally come true. Sherlock Holmes was no longer just a great man. He was a good one, as well.

After solving a particularly difficult case, John insisted that he and Sherlock have dinner at Angelo's. Sherlock was fine with the choice, but John figured the sentiment of it would be completely lost to him. John elected not to try and explain. Instead, he claimed he simply had a craving for Angelo's food and Sherlock accepted that.

In the cab on the way over, John mulled over the thought that had been brewing in his mind. It was a small, little thing, something he'd missed entirely when he'd first heard it. But somehow, it had come back to him and had been eating at him for some time. He wanted to ask Sherlock for clarification, but wasn't qutie sure how to bring it up. As they entered the restaurant, he resolved to discuss it with Sherlock before the night was out, come hell or high water.

"Boys!" Angelo greeted them at the door. "How's my favourite couple in all of London?"

Sherlock flashed Angelo a smile and nodded in greeting. "Hello Angelo. Do you have a table for us?"

"For you, Sherlock, I've always got a table." He ushered them to the same window side table they'd first eaten at. "You know the rules, lovebirds, anything on the menu, its yours."

"Thank you, Angelo." Sherlock didn't take the proffered menu, but at a stern look from John he at least ordered. In the time since his return, he'd put on more weight than he ever had in his life. His body was still lean and slim, but perhaps for the first time he was no longer gaunt. Despite the inconvenience of eating, Sherlock had to admit that the muscle mass he'd gained had proven useful in many cases.

When Angelo left to make their food, Sherlock studied the road and remembered the first time he'd ever brought John to the restaurant. John didn't think Sherlock understood sentiment, and he certainly wasn't an expert in it by any means, but he'd have had to have been utterly dense not to realize the significance of this place for them. And considering the setting, he had an announcement he wanted to make. Before he could broach the subject, though, he realized John had something on his mind as well. That little line between his eyes that only appeared when he was thinking hard could be seen prominently on his brow.

"You might as well just say what it is you're thinking, John. You'll give yourself a stroke if you keep thinking about it so hard."

"This coming from the man who thinks more than anyone else in the whole world."

"Yes, but my mind is accustomed to that kind of strenuous use."

John smothered his smile at Sherlock's innocently insulting comment. If it had come from anyone else, he'd have taken offence. But with Sherlock, it was just a simple truth. He shook his head, took a deep breath, and decided to wing it.

"There's something I've been wondering about for a while now," he started. "Its something that came up a while ago, and I never really got the clarification I wanted on it. I thought I knew all the facts, but I think that maybe I was misled- maybe inadvertently."

"I don't lie to you." Sherlock managed to look mildly offended.

"Not unless you're trying to protect me from something."

Sherlock's face scrunched up. "Listen, I wasn't deceiving you when I said I enjoyed playing out that fantasy of yours. I wasn't disinterested, I was just trying to play the part accurately-"

John sputtered, nearly spewing tea all over Sherlock's very serious face. He coughed to clear his airways and shook his head adamantly. "That's _not_ what I was talking about!"

"Oh." Sherlock sat back, a little relieved. "Alright then." John caught his breath again and fought the wave of colour that threatened to rise into his cheeks.

"I meant when we were talking about...about what happened to you."

"_Oh_." This time, Sherlock's tone was dark.

"There was something you said, something that's bothered me. You said, _"I thought I knew all the risks going in."_" Sherlock nodded, recalling the conversation perfectly. "What I can't figure out is how, if you were captured, you'd have known all the risks going in."

Sherlock blinked at him. Suddenly, his throat felt tight. He'd thought, since Mycroft had told John about his reasons for faking his death, that he'd have also told John the circumstances surrounding his capture. Now, all this time later, Sherlock didn't want to add that burden to John's shoulders. What purpose could it serve? John would only feel more guilt, guilt that wasn't his to bear. He opened his mouth to spout some nonsense that he could pass off as an excuse for the words.

"The truth, Sherlock. I don't need protection from you. I can handle it." He met Sherlock's eyes. "Please."

What was he supposed to say to that? He still wanted to protect his partner, but John deserved honesty from Sherlock. He swallowed past the tightness in his throat and looked away, out the widow. "I apologize, John. I thought you knew. I'd assumed- well it doesn't really matter. The truth is that yes, I was captured, but it was by my own choice."

"What?"

"The leader of that gang was the last man that I needed to deal with before I could come home to you. He was careful, and he was very clever. He never came out of hiding, never gave me a chance to get at him. It was the only way I could reach him. So I made the decision to let his men capture me so that they would take me to the caves."

"You...you let them? You got yourself captured _on purpose?_" John could hardly believe what he was hearing. "Sherlock they could have killed you! They...they tortured you! Why would you do that?"

"I told you, it was the only way to get at him. I'd tried every other way. And I'd waited long enough. I wanted home. I wanted you. I calculated all the risks involved and made a choice."

"You knew what they were going to do to you?" John's voice had gone from loud and angry to low and thready.

"I-" Sherlock stopped, unwilling to go into his miscalculations on handling the torment his captors dealt. "Yes. I was aware."

"And you did it anyways. To protect me. To come home to me."

"John, don't." Sherlock laid a hand on John's shoulder and shook him slightly. "I made the decision. I'm responsible for its consequences."

"Because of me!" John put his head in his hands. It was exactly what he'd been afraid of. "I don't even know how to handle this knowledge."

"The same way you handle knowledge of any sort that no longer affects you, bears no fault of yours, and can't be changed. Ignore it. Forget it. Lay it to rest."

"Forget it?" John shook his head. "How am I supposed to just forget something like that?"

"John." Sherlock waited until John looked up at him. He took both John's hands in his and held them tightly, a rare display for them. "I'm right here. I'm home. I'm safe. I'm just fine. We're together. Nothing else matters. I understand how this bothers you, but please believe me when I say that you should feel no guilt or remorse for what happened. I don't regret it. I never will."

"But Sherlock-"

"No buts. I am _happy,_ John. Maybe truly for the first time in my life. I'd have gone through that cave a thousand times if it brought me here. It happened, and now its done. Lets put it behind us."

"I...I'll try. But it might take some time."

"Whatever you need," Sherlock promised. He thought about what it was he'd been planning to say. The general mood of the night had taken a much darker turn than he'd expected, but he decided maybe this would be just the way to lighten it again. "When you get time tomorrow, you'll need to go down to the bank."

"What? Whatever for?"

"Papers they need you to sign."

John's forehead creased. "Why'd they call you then? I've got a perfectly good mobile."

"They didn't call me. I called them."

"Why?"

"Because I'm closing your account."

"Wh-what?" John's jaw dropped. Sherlock hid his smirk.

"Do you need me to repeat myself, John?"

"No I don't need you to bloody repeat yourself! What the hell do you mean, closing my account?"

"I'd have thought the meaning was fairly obvious."

"You know exactly what I'm getting at. Don't sit there and be all literal. Why would you tell them to close my account?"

"Because you've been added to mine. There's no reason for two accounts. Bit redundant, I'd think."

"You did what?"

"Really, John, either you've got to get your ears checked or your mental faculties have deserted you tonight."

"Oh shut it! Why am I on your account?"

"Shall I list the reasons?"

"Yes!" John's obvious frustration started to confuse Sherlock. It had seemed like a simple enough decision to him. Perhaps this was one of those situations that involved hidden feelings that Sherlock simply didn't understand.

"Alright, first off, we live together and pay all of our bills together anyways. Secondly, on the times I am gifted some recompense for solving a case, the assets are almost always in my name which I find discriminatory as you are an intrigal part of my process. Third, it is an archaic notion that one of us should be buying dinners for the other, but an unnecessary inconvenience to separate the tabs. Fourth-"

"Ok, that's enough, I don't need you to list all the reasons." John ran a hand through his hair and found himself, not for the first time that day, praying for patience. "What brought this on?"

"It was simply a matter that came to my attention and I decided to fix it. I fail to see what you're so agitated over this for."

"Usually people don't just go round closing other people's bank accounts, Sherlock."

"Is there a reason you'd rather we didn't have the same account?"

"Well...no. Its just that that's a kind of big decision. A sort of...couple decision."

"We live together, work together, are romantically involved and are committed to each other. What else needs to be taken into consideration?"

"I'm not saying that its a bad idea. It's just a milestone, you know? A kind of cementing of a relationship."

"Are you equating a shared bank account to marriage?" Sherlock studied John carefully, trying to read exactly what the doctor was thinking.

"What? No! Well, sort of."

"You think marriage should have come before the joint account?"

"NO! That's not what I-"

"If you're attempting to use that ridiculous reverse psychology trick, you needn't waste your time." He shrugged casually. "If you want me to propose you've only to ask. Though I don't necessarily think that it matters which of us makes the proposition."

"You- what? Wait a minute! Did you just ask me to marry you?"

"See? There you go with that reverse psychology again. I really fail to see the point. You're perfectly welcome to do the propositioning yourself."

"Wait, no, stop. Hold on just one bloody minute." John held his hands up. Sherlock waited obediently. "Lets just rewind for a minute before I even try to process this most recent development. The bank accounts."

"Yes. I've added you to mine and cancelled yours. You need only to go down and sign the papers."

"Which you've done because..."

"Convenience, mostly, though as you've pointed out to me, it does also have romantic significance as well." Sherlock paused a moment. "Is it a problem?"

John took a deep breath. "No. Its fine. As always, your reasoning is perfectly sound. I'll go in and sign the papers tomorrow."

"Good." Sherlock nodded, then casually continued to eat his meal. John wanted to laugh out loud. Only Sherlock could bring up marriage and then go right on with his dinner as if it was an every day occurrence.

"So now that we've got that out of the way, lets go back to the whole marriage thing."

"Yes?"

"You've never mentioned marriage before."

"Nor have you. Before tonight, that is."

"I didn't-" John stopped, knowing there was no point trying to argue. "Fine. Yes. Neither of us has brought it up."

"And?"

"Well I don't even know how you feel about the subject."

"On marriage as an institution, marriage of same sex couples, or marriage for us specifically?"

"Well, all three I guess."

Sherlock put his fork down and studied John, trying to read him. He could tell that John had used half an ounce too much butter on his toast that morning. He could tell that John's pillow was two days overdue for its washing. He could tell that John had used an electric razor instead of a blade when shaving. But he absolutely could not see into the man's head. He couldn't deduce what answers John wanted.

"On marriage as an institution, I am not necessarily opposed. I can accept and understand its significance for couples as well as its necessity in society. While I find the concept a little outdated and often over used, I think in general its effects are more positive than negative. As for same sex marriage, I feel that if couples were to be denied simply because of their gender, then the whole institution ought to be revoked. Same sex couples certainly aren't making any more a mockery of marriage than those idiots who divorce within days or months of entering into the contract. In my opinion, those that oppose it tend to be bigoted, misinformed, or zealots."

John might have been shocked at the depth of Sherlock's conviction on the matter if he hadn't expressed similar opinions when they'd discussed same sex relationships in general.

"And my thoughts about marriage for us specifically are a bit apathetic to be honest."

"Meaning?"

"I don't think it is strictly necessary, but neither am I against it."

"So you don't care."

"That's not what I said," Sherlock spoke carefully. "The matter is of great importance for every couple. What I mean is that we are already committed in every way I find necessary for my own comfort. If, however, it is a step you wish to take in order to make those commitments public and legal, I would be very honoured to enter into that arrangement with you."

John studied Sherlock. Somehow, that hadn't been the answer he'd been expecting. Perhaps something about archaic, pointless rituals, unnecessary or outdated ideas about monogamy...something. But for him to say that he'd be "honoured" to be married to John... It left him with a curiously warm feeling in his chest.

"Rather than simply stare at me with that enigmatic look on your face, I think now might be an appropriate time for you to explain your own feelings on the subject." Sherlock shifted a little and John realized the detective was uncomfortable! Was he nervous about what John would say? What he would think?

"Well, I agree with all that. I mean about marriage in general and same sex couples."

"And us specifically?"

John couldn't help a little grin. Sherlock _was_ nervous. It was a novel experience. "As for us specifically, I'd say I guess I'm...for it."

Sherlock let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Then he scolded himself for letting his emotions get so wrapped up in such an unimportant thing. He'd already said he was perfectly content with their relationship exactly the way it was. He didn't need any further promises or vows from his partner. But even still, the fact that _John_ wanted it was comforting.

"So. Are you proposing marriage then?"

"Ah, no. I think you already did." John smirked.

"What? I believe I'd have remembered that, John." Sherlock glared at him with mock indignancy.

"You said it! You said that if I wanted to, you'd be honoured to marry me. That's a proposal if I've ever heard one."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You and your bloody reverse psychology."

"Not a very romantic proposal, though, was it? No, I don't think it was your best work," John teased.

"Not my best-" Sherlock growled under his breath and grit his teeth. Damned if he was going to be accused of slacking in the romance department when it came to John. He rose and stalked away from the table. John stared after him, a little worried he'd pushed the joke too far. He started to go after Sherlock when he saw him stop and speak rapidly to Angelo in a low tone. Angelo grinned, then the two of them went into the back room together. John had no idea what Sherlock was planning, but he assumed it would be merciless payback for his teasing. Sherlock didn't often bother with such things, but when he was roused, the man could be positively devious.

A few minutes later, Sherlock came back out with Angelo close behind. They arrived at the table wordlessly and Angelo set down a lit candle then gave John a thumbs up. Sherlock stood a little stiffly, not saying anything still. Just when John was about to ask him what was going on, Sherlock went down on one knee and pulled a small black box from inside his pocket.

"Sherlock-"

"You've been my companion for years," Sherlock began gravely. "And it has been my great privilage to share my life with you thus far. I can't think of a man more lucky than I to have you for a partner, in all ways. You're aware of my affections and my singular devotion to you. But now I wish to make that devotion known to the world. John Hamish Watson, would you do me the honour of marrying me?" He opened the box and inside was a small circle of silver. He waited, face carefully composed, while John stared first at Sherlock, then at the make-shift ring. A stab of unease went through him. John had said before that the proposal wasn't romantic enough. But was this too much? "Did I do it wrong?" he whispered.

John blinked back tears and laughed. "No, Sherlock. You did it exactly right." He grinned widely. "Yes, I'll marry you, you idiot." Sherlock found himself grinning as well. John pulled Sherlock forward and hugged him tightly. When they finally sat back and Sherlock took his chair, they realized people in the restaurant were cheering and clapping. Sherlock cleared his throat and looked around.

"Its just come to my attention that I've just committed a very public display of affection, John."

"Yes, yes I'd say you did."

"I apologize if that makes you uncomfortable in any way."

"Sod the crowd. And sod our usual feelings about PDAs." He pulled Sherlock forward by his lapels and planted a deep, searing kiss on Sherlock's lips. The detective stayed perfectly still for a moment, stunned. Then he melted into the kiss, threading his fingers through John's hair and pulling him closer still. When they broke apart, they were breathless and nearly panting with desire. "Do..." John tried to catch his breath. "Do you fancy dessert?"

In response, Sherlock lifted John's hand, turned it palm up and placed a very slow, very deliberate kiss on his wrist. John's reaction was instantaneous. His eyes hooded, pulse kicked up, skin flushed.

"Best skip the dessert, then," he said faintly. "I think we ought to get back to the flat. Tonight's going to be a special night."

"With you, my dear Dr Watson, how could it be anything less?"

_**Eeeeek! Did you just love it?! *sigh* I love happy endings. Well that's it, folks. Thanks so much for reading and an extra extra thank you to my reviewers. I'm thinking of maybe adding a few lines that are just little follow up tidbits, but we'll see. Anyhow, hope you enjoyed it! **_


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